


When Darkness Comes

by Sarahbob



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: AU Universe - World War II, Enjolras is traumatized, Flashbacks to concentration camps, Friendship, Gen, History, Hope, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, Memories, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Trauma, eating problems
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-08
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-24 11:57:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 30,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1604306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarahbob/pseuds/Sarahbob
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU Universe - World War II/French Resistance. Enjolras is captured by the Gestapo and sent to a prisoner camp in Germany. When he returns, he is no longer the same. His friends will do their very best to put him back together, but they must ask themselves if that is even possible when one is broken beyond their understanding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (Hello! For my Master's Thesis I am doing research about the debate surrounding the representation of the Holocaust in popular media. Writing fiction concerning this subject still is very much criticized. On the one hand people say the subject is too horrible to ever represent. Pretending to be able to do so is called barbaric. On the other hand, witnesses are dying and people want to spread Holocaust awareness. They believe representations are necessary to keep the memory alive. This story is not about the Holocaust per se, but it is connected to it and I do try to touch the subject in a distant, sensitive way. I needed to say this beforehand, because I am not trying to trivialize the subject in any way. Descriptions of the camps in this story will be minimal and not graphic.)

Eleven months, seven days and three hours. That's how long it has been since he last saw Enjolras. Since he last saw his best friend, the chief of their group of friends. Eleven months, seven days and half an hour. That's how long it has been since Courfeyrac came bursting through his door, in tears, to tell him their leader was captured by the Gestapo. He later learned that his friend was crammed into a cattle wagon with no less than a hundred other prisoners and transported to a war prisoner camp somewhere in Germany. Combeferre knows exactly how long it has been. He has been counting.

They were supposed to do an easy job that day. Of course, being part of an illegal, underground resistance group was never easy, but the job they were to do had been fully planned and it should have been safe. Enjolras, one of the commanders of resistance groups in Paris, along with Courfeyrac, Feuilly and Bahorel was supposed to carry secret luggage along with new planned escape routes for Allied soldiers to the other part of the city. Somehow – and Combeferre still didn't exactly know how – they found themselves in the scheduled café surrounded by German soldiers. Help from their side came the second the fighting started, but the Germans were quick to capture the leader and isolate him from his comrades. According to Courfeyrac, Enjolras was already gone by the time he and Bahorel had fought their way through the chaos.

Combeferre doesn't even know if Enjolras is alive. Terrible stories of life in the concentration camps have reached their ears. No one knows if they are really true - it is impossible to imagine that they are – but the news now comes from reliable sources which are hard to ignore. The news comes from liberation troops and returning witnesses. The news comes from photographs and film footage that secretly finds its way to the French Resistance. And with every little detail, Combeferre feels sicker to his stomach. With every little detail he feels his hope of Enjolras' return diminish.

After Enjolras got captured, his friend's continued in their fight against the Nazi regime and the collaborationist Vichy regime. They took part in guerilla warfare activities, they helped publish underground newspapers, they maintained networks that helped Allied soldiers trapped behind enemy lines. They played a significant role in facilitating the Allies' rapid advance through France after the invasion of Normandy and they celebrated the Liberation of Paris on August 25, 1944, two and a half months after Enjolras was taken. Combeferre fought and celebrated alongside of his friends, but he had lost most of his spirit. The freedom of France was always the highest goal, though somehow Combeferre had trouble seeing it since his best friend was gone.

Combeferre closes his eyes and lies back on his ragged couch. So many memories. So much blood and pain and death. He wonders how life will go on after this. Will everyone simply continue? Will they do anything in their power to guarantee a reconstruction of their wretched society? Will they remember what happened? Will there be help for those who lost everything? Will those who collaborated with the Germans be punished? Will life ever find happiness again? Combeferre sniffs and hugs the photo frame he was holding close to his chest. It contains a picture of himself and Enjolras, when they were still children, living in the countryside of Southern France. He loves that picture, though he can't remember it. He cannot recall a time where he was carefree. He cannot remember a time that wasn't dominated with war and destruction. He cannot remember this Enjolras. The innocent young boy, full of life and curiosity.

There is a soft knock on the door and for a second, Combeferre allows himself to dream that it is Enjolras standing behind it. For a second he dares to hope that his friend has finally returned to them. But when he lays his hand on the knob, he already knows that his dreams are false and his hope is futile.

"Hi, 'Ferre," Courfeyrac says quietly when Combeferre opens the door and steps aside to let him in. "I missed you at the meeting today, so I thought I'd come by and fill you in. If you're up for it, of course." Courfeyrac knows. He knows that Combeferre is spiraling down. He knows that his friend is hardly more than those ghosts of prisoners who return to the country. And he knows that each day that passes without news on Enjolras' whereabouts, weighs on Combeferre's heart like a concrete rock.

Combeferre just nods and goes into his tiny kitchen to make his friend some coffee. He wants to ask again. He wants to ask Courfeyrac if there is any news. He wants to know if they have found their leader under the terribly long lists of victims. He wants to know if he is still missing. He wants to be released of that painful, suffocating grip of not knowing anything. But he is afraid to ask. He fears that this time, the answer will be positive and he fears that he will lose his best and oldest friend for good.

"There's really not that much news, though," Courfeyrac admits regrettably. "It's difficult to get into contact with the government at the moment. They only talk to the commanders of the Resistance, so we thought that we'd let them solve it and focus our attention to the people returning to the city. It's hectic, 'Ferre… So many of them lost their homes, their families. We've opened shelters in some of our safe houses and we…"

"Is there any news on Enjolras?" Combeferre interrupts his friend suddenly. He immediately feels ashamed for not paying attention to Courfeyrac's story, but the question had been stuck in his mouth, just waiting to burst out. When he looks up and sees the tears in Courfeyracs eyes, his heart sinks and he wishes he hadn't asked.

"Yes…," Courfeyrac whispers in a shaky voice, wiping a tear away. He walks towards Combeferre and takes his friend's hand. "We have news… Though we still don't know where he is or what has happened to him. B-But… we have found records… A-And those records show that when he was captured, they sent him to a prison camp in Germany, to Neuengamme. But then six months later he was transferred to Bergen-Belsen, another camp, I believe it used to be a war prisoners camp too..." Courfeyrac swallows and closes his eyes for a second. "The camp was liberated nearly two months ago…"

 _Bergen-Belsen._ Combeferre knows the name and it chills him to his very core. He feels like something has just hit him in the stomach and he has trouble breathing. Two months… That made sense, of course, since the war had ended two months ago, but still. If the camp was liberated two months ago, shouldn't the survivors have returned already? If Enjolras was there… If he was still alive… Shouldn't he be back in Paris by now? He bites his lip and nods. He tries to remain calm, but his world is crashing down hard and he doesn't know how to keep himself from being crushed by its weight. "H-Have… Courf… H-Have others already returned from there?"

His friend gives him an apologetic look and that is really all that Combeferre needs for an answer. He literally feels himself deflate as the last bit of hope he had flies away from him.

Courfeyrac leaves Combeferre's apartment a few hours later, urging him to keep in touch and to not lose faith. But Combeferre feels like a solid statue, deprived from all that makes him human. As if his very heart has turned into cold stone.

* * *

He doesn't see any of the Amis for more than a week. He doesn't visit them and he doesn't open his door when they come by. He only shifts a note under the door to tell them he is physically well and just needs some time alone. But he isn't well. Not by a long shot. Combeferre is falling apart and all he sees is death and horror and war.

He lies on his couch now, late in the afternoon, little more than a week and a half after Courfeyrac visited him, and he stares at the ceiling. His mind is blank. He has no thoughts. He blocks his memories. It's easier not to think. His eyes fall closed when he hears a faint knock on his front door. Combeferre feels guilty for letting his friends down like this, but he cannot help it. He doesn't know how to stop himself from spiraling down the way that he does. Another knock has him open his eyes again and he sighs. "I am fine, please go away," he calls out, not missing the fact that his voice cracks in the middle, betraying his words.

It is quiet outside the door and for a moment Combeferre hopes that whoever was there had decided to leave him alone. But then he hears it again and somehow it gets on his nerves. It's a soft knock, almost hesitant, and yet still very compelling. Combeferre frowns and calls out again, firmer this time.

And then he hears it. A voice so faint that it is easily missed. It's a mere breath of Combeferre's name and it sends shivers down his spine, because he knows that whoever he thinks he is hearing, isn't there. His mind is playing tricks on him.

"'Ferre, please open the door?"

A whole sentence this time and Combeferre is crying because this is just cruel. He wants it to stop. He doesn't want to hear that voice. Caught in some sort of desperate delusion, Combeferre lets himself fall off the couch and storms towards the door. He will not have anything or anyone denigrate the image of his best friend. He doesn't want to be fooled. He will not have it.

But tearing his front door open nearly sends Combeferre down to the ground. Because even though the person that stands in front of him in no way resembles the boy he has known since childhood, Combeferre is certain that he is seeing his best friend. He would recognize those piercing blue eyes anywhere, no matter how disheveled, malnourished or broken the rest of his body may be.

Combeferre stares and the person in front of him stares back. Then suddenly his arms are wrapped tightly around a far too small frame. He doesn't know who initiates the embrace, although he is fairly sure that it is Enjolras who falls against him, but he doesn't care. He doesn't care that he can feel and count every bone beneath Enjolras' skin. He doesn't care he cannot hide his face in the mop of golden curls that was always there but had now been cut away to soft blonde peaks of hair. He doesn't care that he starts crying and he doesn't care he is holding his friend for far longer than he would ever be comfortable with. All he knows at that moment is that he is finally able to wrap his arms around his best friend again. He knows how to do this. He knows how to be the comforter, the protector, the guide.

And Enjolras is silent and still in his grip. He doesn't cry, he doesn't cling and he doesn't break down. All he does is rest his head on Combeferre's shoulder, close his eyes and melt into the familiar and severely missed embrace.

"Don't ask me what happened," he whispers quietly, shakily, in his oldest and best friend's ear. "Don't ask me, for I will never be able to tell you. Nor do I want to."

Combeferre takes the words to heart and tightens his embrace by means of an answer. They stand there in the door opening for a long while. And when Combeferre finally pulls his friend inside and closes the door behind them, he knows who he is again. In a matter of seconds he returns to himself and he knows his purpose in life. Enjolras' return, no matter how broken, meant Combeferre's return.


	2. Chapter 2

Combeferre wordlessly pushes a cup of steaming tea in Enjolras' hands. All the time that his best friend was missing, Combeferre could think of a million things he wanted to tell him. But now that Enjolras was back home, sitting on the couch and hugging his knees close to his chest, Combeferre couldn't think of a single thing. There was so much he wanted to ask, so much he wanted to tell. But Enjolras' distant, almost empty expression put Combeferre off guard. What was there to say? What was there to ask? Maybe silence was the best way to go for now. Indeed, Enjolras already told him that he didn't want Combeferre to ask what happened.

"Thanks," Enjolras mutters as he accepts the cup of tea. He offers Combeferre a small smile, but Combeferre knows him too well to know there's no real happiness behind it.

"You're welcome," Combeferre says just as softly, voice wavering a bit. He settles himself next to Enjolras on the couch and stares down at his own mug. Silence falls between the two friends and it's the first time in their lives that it doesn't feel comfortable. Combeferre feels disconnected from Enjolras, from the person he used to know through and through. The happiness he felt when he saw his friend standing in his door way makes place for painful desperation when he realizes Enjolras has gone through a terrible chapter in his life that Combeferre has missed and will never understand. It hurts, because Combeferre feels it's his job to make Enjolras feel safe and happy, but now he fears he will never be able to live up to that job.

He doesn't realize his hands are shaking until he loses his grip on the steaming cup of tea and sees it clatter to the ground. The sound is deafening, breaking the pressing silence. Combeferre feels Enjolras flinch next to him and that is all it takes to have him break down again. He hides his face in his hands and tries his best to suppress or at least muffle the sobs, but it is no use. And he feels terrible, because he is supposed to be strong. He is supposed to be strong for Enjolras.

It takes him a few moments to realize that the person next to him is trying to get his attention. When he looks up, Enjolras pulls him close and lets his hand rest on the back of Combeferre's head, drawing soft circles in his hair. Combeferre allows himself to melt into Enjolras' embrace and tries not to notice how profoundly his friend's collarbone is visible beneath his skin. Never in his life had Combeferre wished for his friend to stubbornly tell him he was fine when he obviously wasn't. But Enjolras doesn't say he's alright. He doesn't roll his eyes and he doesn't try to convince Combeferre that he is okay. Enjolras doesn't say anything for a while. When he does speak, the words send shivers down Combeferre's spine.

"Don't cry 'Ferre. Don't waste your tears on me. I do not deserve them."

And if anything, that makes Combeferre cry even harder because tears on Enjolras are never wasted and how can he not deserve them? Combeferre grips Enjolras' boney forearm and squeezes it tight.

"I'm alive," Enjolras whispers shakily more to himself than to his friend.

 _No, you're not_ , Combeferre can't help but think. _Not really._ Enjolras does not tell him to stop crying again. But he doesn't lose his hold on Combeferre either.

After ten minutes or so, Combeferre pulls back and rubs at his eyes, wiping the remaining tears away. Before he stands to clean up the mess he made, he places a quick kiss to Enjolras' forehead. He feels his friend's eyes watch his every move and when Combeferre walks into the tiny kitchen he doesn't miss the way Enjolras strains his neck a little to follow him. There was a time when it would have made him smile to know that Enjolras didn't want to be apart from him. Now it only broke his heart. He quickly drops the broken cup in the trash and hurries back towards the couch. Once again, he takes his place next to his friend, but this time he dares to take charge and he drapes an arm around Enjolras' small shoulders, pulling him against his side. Combeferre feels like he needs the contact himself, but if the way Enjolras' body relaxes against his is anything to go by, he is sure that his friend wants it just as much.

For a second everything feels normal again, but the following quietness is just as uncomfortable as it was before. This time, however, it is not Combeferre's mug that breaks the silence, but Enjolras' hesitant voice. Combeferre recognizes the tone of that voice. It is the tone of desperately wanting to know something, but at the same time being afraid of finding out. He has felt that way for eleven months.

"The others…?" It is all that Enjolras is capable of asking.

Combeferre rubs soothing circles across his friend's shoulders and presses another kiss to the side of his head. "They are alive," he says quietly. "Bahorel lost his left arm in a fight and Feuilly has trouble with his hearing after an explosion some months ago, but they are alive…"

Enjolras nods slowly and suddenly his eyes tear up. "Grantaire and Eponine?" he chokes out softly, and it breaks Combeferre's heart to hear his friend's voice so weak, so unsure. Grantaire and Eponine are the only ones in their group of Jewish decent and Combeferre has heard enough to know why Enjolras suddenly has trouble breathing. He moves his hand from his friend's shoulder to the nape of his neck and lets it rest there. "Safe, alive and as fierce as ever," he answers slowly, pulling Enjolras even closer to him when he hears his friend's breath hitch.

Enjolras nods again and Combeferre sees how he bites his lip in an obvious attempt to refrain from crying. When one tear in the end does find its escape from Enjolras' eyes, the blonde quickly wipes it away and clenches his jaw. Combeferre feels the body next to him grow tense and it scares him.

"It's okay to cry, Enjolras," he says quietly, hoping to offer his friend some comfort, but that's when everything spins out of control.

Enjolras pulls himself away from Combeferre, shaking his head furiously and stands up so quickly that he has to take hold of the couch in order not to fall down. "No, no, no, no, no, it is not okay. It is _not_ okay, Combeferre. Don't tell me that. You don't know! It is not okay to cry for me. You don't understand. You don't understand!" His voice is raising in volume and tears are readily streaming down his cheeks now which only makes Enjolras angrier. He presses his fists against his eyes in a futile attempt to stop the tears from falling. When it doesn't work, Enjolras turns on his heels, hurries towards his bedroom and slams the door close behind him, all the while muttering 'it's not okay, it's not okay'. He leaves a shocked, shaking Combeferre behind.

* * *

Combeferre returns to the couch with a heavy heart a deep sigh. After Enjolras' episode, the bespectacled man spent hours going back and forth trying to convince his friend to unlock the door and let him in. But Enjolras hadn't answered him a single time. Evening had fallen and it was already dark outside. For a brief moment, Combeferre wondered if he should contact Courfeyrac or one of the other Amis, but it was late and he feared that having more people over without Enjolras' consent would only worsen the situation now. He would contact them the next morning.

Combeferre sinks back in the cushions and tries to read in his book, but his eyes keep drifting towards the locked bedroom door. He knows that he made a mistake by telling his friend it was okay to cry, but he doesn't know why it was a mistake. He couldn't figure out the reason that made Enjolras flip out the way that he did. So perhaps Enjolras was right. He didn't understand. He didn't know. And he never would.

He just wishes that Enjolras would open up the door so that he can apologize and make it okay again. After half an hour of pretending to read, Combeferre slams his book shut again and walks back towards the bedroom door. He pleads with his friend to open up. He apologizes over and over again. But Enjolras still doesn't answer him and Combeferre sinks towards the ground with his back against the door. He has no idea how long he sits there and he can't remember falling asleep. He wakes up to the door suddenly opening and he tumbles inside Enjolras' room. Combeferre opens his eyes and looks up to see his friend watching him, eyes once again distant and hollow. In his hands he has a large box filled to the brink.

"Please throw this away for me," Enjolras mumbles quietly, placing the box next to Combeferre on the floor. "I apologize for getting angry. It was not your fault."

Combeferre pushes himself up from the floor and looks past Enjolras into his room. What he sees takes his breath away. Everything that made Enjolras the person that he was, was gone. Combeferre had taken good care to keep his friend's room in good state. He hadn't thrown out anything, not even the numerous notes and papers that had been scattered around the room. But Enjolras had scooped it all up. The notes, the papers, the maps, the lists of Resistance, the flag, the certificates, the letters and most importantly the photos. The only things that were still there were the painting Grantaire gave him and one picture of their group of friends taken before the war started.

"Enjolras," Combeferre breaths quietly, shaking his head at the box, "Don't do this… this is your life, this is you, don't throw it out…"

But Enjolras turns away and walks back into his room. "That is not my life. Not anymore." He shuts the door behind him, but doesn't lock it. Combeferre stares after him for a couple of seconds, picks up the box and stuffs it away in his own bedroom. He will not throw it out. He will keep it safe. He will keep it there just in case Enjolras decides he wants it back.


	3. Chapter 3

Combeferre turns around in his bed for what must be the hundredth time. He can't sleep. He's exhausted and emotionally drained, but he just can't sleep. There is too much going on in his head. Too many concerns, too much fear and desperation. He glances at the clock on the wall and sighs when he sees it's already half past three in the morning. If he's still awake an hour from now, he will just get up and start the day early. There is a lot to do now that Enjolras has returned, so getting up early might actually be a smart thing to do.

Combeferre turns on his side again and closes his eyes. He wonders if Enjolras is getting any sleep. He hopes so, because his best friend sure as hell needs it. He hasn't seen the blonde since he gave him his box of stuff. Enjolras went back into his room and Combeferre didn't follow him, because he knows when Enjolras wants to be left alone and right at that point, it had been clear as day. Though Combeferre wasn't comfortable with that at all. He hated to see his strong friend so lost and so broken. But the thing he hated even more was the fact that he had absolutely no idea how to help Enjolras feel better. He didn't know the right things to say in a situation like this. He feared that everything he said would be taken the wrong way. He was afraid that he might be insensitive and say something that Enjolras would find insulting. And the last thing Combeferre wanted to do was to push his friend away from him. So maybe it was better to give Enjolras his space and wait for his friend to come to him instead of the other way around.

Maybe…

Combeferre opens his eyes again and stares at the door of his room. He tries to imagine what it was that Enjolras has had to go through while he was imprisoned and he immediately hates himself for it. He shouldn't try and imagine something like that. There was no way that he could. The stories he had heard from his friends had been horrifying, unimaginable. And Combeferre knows that what Enjolras has gone through must've been unspeakable, because the Enjolras he knew was far gone, lost, broken. Breaking Enjolras is no easy job to do, he was the strongest person Combeferre had ever known. His friend must have gone through terrible things to leave him this shadow of the person he once was. And Combeferre feels sick when he tries to imagine what it is that they have done to his friend. He feels so sick with himself that his stomach actually lurches and he is only just in time to make it to the bathroom where he heaves violently until there is nothing left to throw up.

He lets his head rest against the toilet and tries to catch his breath. He closes his eyes and thinks back to the time when Enjolras was the one hugging the toilet seat a few years ago. Before the war. He remembers how his friend had tried to convince him that he wasn't sick. That he was perfectly fine and that Combeferre was safe to go out without worrying over him. Combeferre had let himself be convinced and left. When he came back, he found Enjolras curled around the toilet, drenched in sweat and burning up. Combeferre had not gotten angry but had swooped his friend up, put him to bed and lied down next to him. He wishes he could curl up next to Enjolras right now, hugging him close and making it all okay.

After a couple of minutes he pushes himself up from the ground and walks back to his room. He briefly stops in front of Enjolras' door and listens if he hears anything out of the ordinary. His hand hovers over the doorknob and for a second he really, really wants to go inside. But then he shakes his head and steps back again. If Enjolras is asleep, he will not disturb his friend. With a deep sigh, he walks past Enjolras' room and enters his own. From the corner of his eye, he sees the box with Enjolras' stuff and he has trouble swallowing past the ever present lump in his throat. _Stop it Combeferre. You have to be strong. You have to be the strong one this time._ He steps back into bed and hides away under his blankets. Just when he is about to doze off, he hears a door open in the living room. Combeferre frowns and opens his eyes again, noticing the movement of a shadow in the empty space between his door and the floor. He knows someone is standing just outside of his room and he also knows who that person has to be. Combeferre is holding his breath and he realizes how awful this whole situation is now that he is actually nervous of having Enjolras around.

The person stands in front of his door for at least five minutes and Combeferre has just collected enough courage to get up and confront his friend when the knob finally turns. The door opens to reveal a hesitant Enjolras, hugging himself as he quietly steps inside. Combeferre's heart immediately twists painfully and he wants nothing more than to run forwards and pull his friend close. But he doesn't. Because he knows that it might actually do more bad than good.

Enjolras shifts his weight from one foot to the other and looks to the ground. Combeferre can see him chewing his lip, a habit he has always had whenever he felt nervous or guilty. He remembers the time that Enjolras actually drew blood because he was so anxious to confess to his friend that he had dropped his favorite book in the river. Of course he was still a young child then.

"Are you okay," Enjolras whispers quietly after what must have been at least ten minutes. "I…uh… I heard you just now…a-and, well yeah… I was just wondering…"

Combeferre doesn't know what to say at first. He wonders if he woke Enjolras up or if his friend was already awake. He is pretty sure it's the latter. He clears his throat and shakes his head. "I'm fine, Enjolras," he says quietly after a couple of seconds.

Enjolras looks up at him and Combeferre sees something resembling fear in his friends eyes. "Are you sure? Are you sick? I heard you 'Ferre, don't lie to me please... Please, don't" His voice wavers and he watches Combeferre with pleading eyes.

Combeferre is afraid he'll actually break Enjolras' heart if he lies, his friend looks so unsure and vulnerable standing there in his too large pyjama's. He sits up a little straighter and tries to offer Enjolras a comforting smile. "I'm sure, my friend. I just felt a little sick. Might have eaten something bad... Don't worry."

Enjolras swallows visibly and nods at the floor. He looks terrible. Of course he hadn't looked well earlier either but now that he's standing there in the dark, holding himself, Combeferre has to admit he really looks terrible. He's so pale and so skinny it's almost scary. _No not almost_ , Combeferre thinks. _Not almost. It is scary._

 _"_ I'm sorry if I woke you, Enjolras," Combeferre continues when his friend keeps quiet. "But I'm okay now, you can go back to sleep."

Enjolras nods again, but doesn't move. When he looks back up, there's something is his eyes that Combeferre has never seen there before. He can see the cracks, the agony, the pure fear. He can see how broken his friend truly is, how lost. Living in darkness.

"Wasn't asleep," Enjolras whispers shakily, "I hardly sleep anymore...even though I'm so tired... I can't"

And Combeferre's hasn't any trouble believing that. The haunted look in his friend's eyes and the dark smudges under them speak for themselves. It's the fact that Enjolras readily admits that he hardly sleeps that's unsettling to Combeferre.

"I keep reliving... When I close my eyes... I..." Enjolras doesn't finish but he doesn't need to because Combeferre knows what happens when Enjolras closes his eyes. He knows that his friend is right back in those dreaded camps when he does. What he doesn't know is how to keep that from happening. He doesn't know how to help.

"I apologize for earlier, Combeferre... I had no right to get so angry... so emotional."

And Combeferre wants to cry again because how could Enjolras be so hard on himself? He wants to say that his friend has every right to be emotional. Has more right than anyone in the entire world. But he doesn't say it, because he knows it's not what Enjolras wants to hear. Instead he just shakes his head and smiles again.

Enjolras looks back at his feet and sniffles. He is still not moving and Combeferre wonders if he is lingering on purpose. If he's waiting for something. Combeferre hesitates for a moment and then clears his throat. He doesn't know if what he's about to say will trigger another outburst, but he decides to take the risk just in case it is exactly what his friend needs. He shifts over in his bed and pulls the blankets away. When Enjolras looks back up again, Combeferre says: "you can stay with me if you want..."

He hears Enjolras inhale sharply and for a moment he fears he's done the wrong thing, but then he sees his friend shuffle closer, although hesitantly. He slowly climbs into the bed and curls on his side, facing away from Combeferre. He murmurs a silent thanks and then all is quiet.

Combeferre stares at the ceiling and forces his tears away. He's not going to cry again. He won't. He might be hurting because of the distance between him and Enjolras and he might be afraid that nothing will ever be the same again, but none of what he's feeling will ever compare to what Enjolras is experiencing. And as long as Enjolras won't allow himself to cry, then neither will Combeferre. But he will not shy away from comforting his friend, from being there for him, from being his protector and his guide. So he turns on his side as well and drapes one arm around his friend, letting his hand rest on Enjolras heart. He feels the blonde tense up, but he doesn't let go. And Enjolras doesn't pull away.

Combeferre leans in a little closer until Enjolras' hair is tucked under his chin. He presses his hand a little harder against Enjolras' chest, ignoring the way he feels his friend's ribs, and closes his eyes. "I might never understand what you've gone through, Enjolras," he whispers softly, "I might never know what's going on inside your head and I might never be able to help you the way that I want... I know things will never be the same again and I know you can never share this with me. I know there will always be a distance between us that can't be fixed and I know that kills you just as much as it kills me. But my dearest, dearest friend, no matter what happens, no matter how dark it gets or how lost we feel, I will always have your back. I will always be there for you. I will be there to catch you. No matter how drastically things have changed, that is something that will never change. That no one can ever take away. Never." He kisses the top of Enjolras' head and searches for Enjolras' hand only to intwine their fingers and place them back on his friend's chest. "Please allow me to be there for you. Don't push me away or shut me out, just because I don't know or don't understand. I don't need to. You don't have to share anything with me, just allow me to hold you when you need it. Just allow yourself to shout and curse at me when it makes you feel better. Just allow me back in your heart..."

Combeferre feels Enjolras' shoulder shake and hugs him a little closer. He's not going to say that everything will be okay and he's not going to promise Eniolras that he will be fine. He can't say things like that anymore because words like that hold little to no worth in a situation like this. Combeferre doesn't say anything when Enjolras starts crying: he doesn't say anything when sobs wrack his fragile body. All he does is hold him tight and keep their hands close to Enjolras' heart. And this time Enjolras doesn't get angry for crying, he doesn't get up an he doesn't twist out of Combeferre's hold. This time, he allows himself to break down. He presses closer to Combeferre and he squeezes his friend's hand with all his might.

Neither of the two friends get any sleep that night. Nor do they say anything other until the sun comes up and lightens the room. They just lay there, close to each other. Enjolras in Combeferre's arms. Never losing the grip on each others hands.


	4. Chapter 4

 

* * *

Combeferre reluctantly opens his eyes. He hasn't slept the entire night and even though he is exhausted, he refuses to stay in bed any longer. Not that he doesn't feel comfortable lying here, with Enjolras curled up in his arms. On the contrary, it feels incredible to finally be able to hold his best friend again, to keep him safe and close. It settles his heavy heart and it loosens the icy grip around his throat. Combeferre briefly wonders if Enjolras feels the same way. He doesn't believe that Enjolras necessarily feels better spending the night with Combeferre in his bed – there is probably nothing that could make Enjolras feel 'better' at this point – but he does think that it makes his friend feel a little less lonely. Indeed, it was Enjolras who came into his room and stayed there until Combeferre made room for him on the bed. That must have been a sign that the young man wanted to stay with him, mustn't it?

Combeferre yawns, squeezes Enjolras' hand softly and turns on his back. He knows his friend is awake too even though he doesn't move with Combeferre but stays curled up on his side. Combeferre lets him, allowing his friend some time to get back to himself, to rebuild the walls that crumbled down so fiercely only a few hours ago. He glances at the clock and sees that it is only eight in the morning. He can't believe Enjolras has only been here for fifteen hours. Now that he has him back again, Combeferre can't remember how it was to not have him here. Or maybe he can, but he doesn't want to. It hurts too much to even try. He knows he's going to have to contact their friends today. Not only do they want Enjolras back just as much as he did, Combeferre knows they have also been extremely worried about his own well being. When Enjolras was taken from them, Combeferre was no longer himself, but when Courfeyrac told him that his best friend had been stuck in Bergen-Belsen, a dreadful camp that was liberated two months ago, Combeferre knew he had hit rock bottom and he had shut everyone out.

He lets his head fall to the side and gently kisses the back of Enjolras' head. If he looks closely, he can see that a few strands of hair have started to curl. Combeferre hopes that they will one day form that glorious mop of hair again that is almost like a halo according to Grantaire. Though Enjolras has never admitted it, Combeferre knows he loved his hair, he always took good care of it and he always liked it when someone gave him a compliment. He doubts if Enjolras will ever care about it again. It's another one of those small things that Combeferre loves about his best friend but that will never be the same again.

"Enjolras," Combeferre says quietly after a couple of minutes. He waits for a response, but none comes. "I'm going to make us something to eat… You can stay in the bed if you want, I can bring it here. Is there anything you want in particular?"

Enjolras sighs and slowly turns on his back to look at Combeferre. His eyes are still a little puffy from crying and he looks so, so tired. "I'm not hungry, I don't need anything."

And Combeferre knows that he shouldn't smile at that. He knows that there's nothing funny about this situation. But he can't help himself, because for the first time since Enjolras' return, he recognizes the best friend he knew and loved. He doesn't know how often he has heard Enjolras say those exact words, but it has been many times and Combeferre would have never thought that there would ever come a time when he was happy to hear them. His smile fades quickly enough, though, when he sees the confused expression on Enjolras' face and he sits up straight, no longer able to look his friend in the eyes.

"You need to eat, Enjolras, you have to build up your strength. You know that as well as I do. I'm not going to force a whole meal on you, but you have to eat something. Have you even seen yourself? You're severely malnourished and you look like you can break or collapse at any time." Combeferre quickly climbs out of his bed, turns his back to Enjolras and pinches the bridge of his nose. He hadn't meant to sound so harsh and he curses himself as soon as the words left his mouth.

When he turns around to apologize he sees that Enjolras has pushed himself up as well, now sitting up straight in the bed with his eyebrows drawn together and a hurt look on his face. Combeferre lets out a deep breath and shakes his head. "I'm sorry… I didn't mean to sound insensitive… I just… You need to eat, Enjolras… I need you to eat. If not for yourself, then please do it for me?"

And that seems to work, because Enjolras ducks his head and nods slowly. When he looks back up, the hurt look has still not disappeared from his eyes, but Combeferre can see understanding there as well. "Just something light then… if you have it," Enjolras mutters quietly, sounding almost embarrassed. "I can't… M-My stomach doesn't really handle food that well yet…Especially solid food…"

Combeferre curses himself again at hearing Enjolras quiet words. Of course he wasn't hungry. It was only logical and it had nothing to do with stubbornness. If his friend had lived on no more than five hundred calories a day for months on end – which was normal according to Courfeyrac, who had heard it from a returned prisoner – then Enjolras' body had grown accustomed to not eating. It had learned itself to not be hungry. Two months of freedom, with little care and lots of travelling had probably not done much to change that. Eating regularly was going to be something that Enjolras would have to learn again. Combeferre sits back down on the bed and reaches out to hold Enjolras' hand.

"I'm sorry," he says again, looking straight into his best friend's blue eyes. "I wasn't thinking… And I shouldn't have said it like that. It is not your fault that you have trouble eating… I know it's not. I'm sorry if I hurt you, my friend…"

Enjolras smiles weakly at him and shakes his head. "It's alright… And I'll come with you. I don't need to stay in bed. I'm just going to change first, if that's okay with you…" He pushes himself up from the bed and walks towards the bedroom door. Combeferre follows close behind.

"You can change here if you want," Combeferre says, trying to sound nonchalant, as he opens his wardrobe and peeks inside, "I guess my clothes will fit you just as well as your own will do now."

Enjolras turns back around and shakes his head again, blushing a little. "No that's fine, 'Ferre… I uh… I just want to change in my room, if you don't mind."

And with that he slips out, crosses the living room and goes into his own bedroom, quietly locking the door behind him. When Combeferre hears the lock turn, he understands exactly why Enjolras doesn't want to change here. He has seen the way his best friend makes sure most of his skin is covered at all times. Combeferre can only guess at the numerous scars that must be littered across his friend's body and it makes him feel sick again. White hot furry suddenly runs through his veins and wants to throw something. He wants to find the people who did this to Enjolras. He wants to hurt them, torture them, kill them. He wants to make them suffer like they have made Enjolras suffer. He has never known rage like this before, never known that it was even possible to feel this way, and it scares him. It scares him, because he can literally feel that he is losing himself and he can't afford that. Not now. Not now he has Enjolras back. So he carefully sits back on his bed again and takes a few deep breaths, forcing himself to calm down. When his heart has slowed down to more comfortable rate, he stands again and gets dressed.

* * *

"I want to contact the Amis this morning, Enjolras," Combeferre says kindly as he and Enjolras are settled at the table, Combeferre with a plate of cheese and bread and Enjolras with a small bowl of yoghurt and some fruit. He waits for his friend to look up at him. "They are missing you terribly and have been praying for you to come home as much as I have. I didn't contact them yesterday, because I thought you could use a silent homecoming and we both know that they would've all barged in here if they knew, but now… they have to know, don't you think?"

Enjolras swallows the spoon of yoghurt and nods. "I actually thought you told them already…" He admits quietly, "I just figured they were afraid of seeing me or something." He quickly looks back at the bowl in his hands and bites his lip. That's enough for Combeferre to understand that his friend hadn't meant to admit to that. He reaches over the table and briefly holds Enjolras' hand.

"They're your friends, Enjolras. They love you. Of course they want to see you. And yes, maybe they will be a bit nervous at first after everything that has happened. Same goes for you, doesn't it? Things have changed and we will all have to learn how to adjust. But we'll make it work, I'm sure of that."

Enjolras nods once and pulls his hand away, not out of anger or annoyance, but because he doesn't want to give Combeferre the impression that he is in need of comfort or pity all the time. And Combeferre understands.

They eat the rest of their breakfast mostly in silence, both of them not feeling comfortable enough for small talk, though both for different reasons. Combeferre notices the distant look in Enjolras' eyes and he knows that his friend is lost in his mind again, probably reliving memories that Combeferre will never learn. And even though he really wants to pull Enjolras away from that dark place, he doesn't know how to do it. It feels odd to just start talking about random things. Besides, he can't even think of a random subject to talk about, no matter how hard he tracks his mind. It all feels so wrong and Combeferre knows that 'adjusting' to one another is not going to be as easy as it sounds. He hopes that maybe Courfeyrac will be better at keeping Enjolras' mind from drifting off. Their jubilant friend has a way with making people feel better.

He smiles when Enjolras excuses himself from the kitchen table and moves over to the couch in their living room. His friend stops at the bookcase and pulls out one of the novels that Combeferre always loves but that Enjolras has never given much attention to. Enjolras never really used to like novels, he preferred non-fiction books. But maybe non-fiction books weren't the way to go when one desperately needed to escape his own mind… Combeferre watches Enjolras curl up on the couch, knees drawn in and wants nothing more than to sit their next to him. Reading together, like they have done so many times before.

But Combeferre has phone calls to make. And because he doesn't have the luxury of owning a phone, he has to leave his apartment for a while and go the phone booth at the end of the street. He doesn't like it that he has to leave Enjolras here by himself, even if it is only for a few minutes, but when he tells his friend, Enjolras only nods and doesn't seem to be bothered by it at all. But when Combeferre leaves the apartment, he doesn't see the way his friend tenses up. He doesn't see how his grip on the book he holds tightens until his knuckles turn white and he doesn't see the way Enjolras curls in even further on himself.

When he arrives at the phone booth, Combeferre prepares himself for a difficult conversation. He really wants to call Courfeyrac, but he knows his friend doesn't have a phone at home either and he won't be at his work yet. So that leaves a few of their other friends. Combeferre decides to call Joly, he has known the man for a long time and he believes him to be responsible enough to pass the news on to the others and plan a visit.

_"Hello?"_

Combeferre smiles. He hasn't heard his friend's voice in a long time. He hasn't heard any of their friend's in a long time.

"Hello Joly, it's Combeferre."

_"Combeferre? God, it's good to hear from you… We've been worried my friend. You haven't been to the meetings, you won't open your door, are you alright? Is everything okay?"_

And Combeferre can feel tears forming in his eyes again. But they are happy tears. Or at least, relatively happy tears. Tears of relief. He has to swallow passed the lump in his throat and lets out a laugh.

"Yeah… Yes, I'm okay. He's back, Joly… Enjolras…"

It is silent for a few seconds and it is clear that Joly doesn't know what to say or how to respond to the information Combeferre gave him. He might not even believe it. Combeferre knows he wouldn't if their roles were reversed.

"He's back, Joly… He arrived at our apartment yesterday… I... He's alive and he's back, he's back here with us… I wanted to let you all know yesterday, but I thought it would be best to give him some space… you know, b-but.. You guys have to come…"

_"Combeferre… Are you… Is he… How is he?"_

Now it is Combeferre's turn to fall silent. After a few deep breaths he says: "Not good… Far from good actually. He's traumatized, underfed… Joly, you won't even recognize him when you see him… Not just physically, but mentally as well… But he's alive. He's alive and he's back and that's all I've got to focus on right now. Just… get the other Amis together and drop by this afternoon, alright? I would gather everyone myself, but I don't want to leave him alone."

_"I… Y-yes, of course… God, Combeferre, I can't believe it. He's really back? A-Are you sure he can handle everyone at once?"_

"Yes, he wants to see everyone. Just…" Combeferre says, sighing softly, "Just don't ask him questions about what happened… He doesn't want to talk about it…"

_"Of course… I'll make sure everyone knows. 'Ferre… Tell him we love him, alright?"_

Combeferre says he will and after a few more words, they hang up. He quickly walks back to the apartment, his heart feeling lighter now that he knows that their friends will be there that afternoon. This might be good for Enjolras. Seeing everybody. Knowing that they are all alive and well, that they were able to keep Grantaire and Eponine safe. Combeferre hopes this will lift Enjolras' spirits a little.

* * *

It's emotional. It's emotional and awkward and wonderful and awful at the same time.

The Amis arrive in the afternoon, along with Eponine and Gavroche. Enjolras pretends he's looking forward to their visit, but Combeferre can tell he's nervous. Combeferre is certain that Joly has prepared their friends what to expect, knows that none of them will crowd Enjolras or push him into talking or answering any questions. And he tells Enjolras the same thing, but it doesn't seem to do anything to comfort his best friend or settle his nerves.

When their friends knock on the door, it's Combeferre who opens it. The first one entering is of course Courfeyrac. He pushes passed Combeferre, hardly acknowledging him, and walks straight up to Enjolras, enfolding the blond in a bone crushing hug. He buries his head in the crook of Enjolras' neck and cries. He cries and whispers and curses. His words are hardly understandable, but one thing sounds loud and clear. "Thank God you're back." Courfeyrac doesn't let go of Enjolras when the other Amis come in to greet him. He keeps a firm hold on his friend's hand.

Most of them cry when they see Enjolras. Everyone hugs him and everyone tells him they are so grateful and so happy to have him back. And Enjolras smiles in return and tells them it's good to see them, but Combeferre can see how disconnected he feels. He can see the confusion in his friend's eyes, the desperation and he knows that Enjolras doesn't feel comfortable. Knows that his friend has lost the connection between them. Knows how hard he is trying and sees how it frustrates him when it doesn't work.

When there falls an awkward silence between them, it's Gavroche who tries to break it. He chuckles and goes to sit between Courfeyrac's legs on the floor. Everyone knows that what he says, he means in the best way possible and no one could have predicted that Enjolras would react the way that he did.

"Hey Enjolras," Gavroche pipes up cheerfully, "Did you know there are all these heroic stories about you in the city? How you didn't back down from the Nazi's and went down fighting. You're a hero man! I bet you showed those Nazi's there's no messing with the Fiery Phoenix from France, right?"

Enjolras' head comes up and he looks at Gavroche. "I did," he says quietly, "I did and they shot ten of my fellow inmates for it." His eyes widen a little when the words leave his mouth and Combeferre can see how he rigid he goes. Enjolras clearly hadn't meant to say that. The room falls silent and everyone is holding their breath. "Excuse me for a moment," Enjolras whispers and he stands up and disappears in his bedroom.

The tension in the living room is so thick, one could cut it with the bluntest of knives.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, please share your thoughts with me. I'm trying to give you all a closer look into the things that happened to Enjolras without having him actually talking about it, because I don't think that's something he would do. Also, find me on Tumblr (Sarahbob24) and come and say hi :)


	5. Chapter 5

_"You think you're being brave, boy? Standing up for yourself and your mates? Let me show you what we do with brave boys around here."_

_He refused to lower his gaze and stared directly into the eyes of Walter Höcker commander of camp Neuengamme. His arms were roughly pulled behind his back. Blood slowly trickled down his face from a small cut above his eyebrow and he thought that this was it. This was his ending. He had tried to plot an uprising and he failed. He had tried to stay true to the person he was and now he was going to get punished for it. He didn't care. After just two months of imprisonment, death was going to be a blissful welcoming. He'd rather die as himself than live on as one of those ghosts roaming around the camp._

_"Round up the inmates of barrack 183," the commander told his one of his guards, never breaking eye contact with his fiery, blond prisoner._

_He frowned. Why would they bring his fellow inmates here? Were they going to make them watch his death? Make an example out of him? The commander's face was only inches away from his, jaw clenched and eyes narrowed. He knew the man was trying to stare him down, but he would not let that happen. He would face his death with his head held high._

_Soon enough the inmates he shared his barrack with arrived at the scene. The guards placed them around him. They had to form two neat lines with him in the middle. The inmates did not look at him. They were trembling and stared at the ground. The commander had still not averted his gaze and neither had he. Both pair of eyes blazing. Then Höcker nodded the smallest of nods. It could have been easily missed had the guards not been trained to pick up on it._

_Out of the corner of his eye he could see a guard approaching. The man drew a pistol and placed it at the temple of the inmate closest to him. He could feel his heart sink when it dawned on him what they were going to do. There was another nod from Höcker and then a shot rang out. He could feel a few drops of blood splash his face and he heard the soft sound of a body dropping to the floor. His gaze was still trained on his commander's, but his heart was picking up speed and his stomach protested fiercely._

_He tried to keep his face in check, but he was shaking. Anger, guilt and grief coursed through his body. He lost his composure when his third fellow inmate sagged to the ground. "Stop," he whispered. "Please, stop." He was no longer watching the commander. His eyes now shut tight and his knees buckling from shock, the guards were the only thing keeping him up. But they did not stop. Not until a ninth shot rang out and there was only one inmate left. That's when they forced him to open his eyes and pushed the last prisoner down to the ground, right in front of him. He felt the weight of a gun being pressed into his shaking hand. Two guards held his arm and body in a death grip so he couldn't move and surprise his enemies. His finger was placed around the trigger. His wide eyes shot up to the commander. The man kept a straight face. "Your actions killed them. Their deaths are on your hands. Now pull the trigger, or it's ten more after him."_

_At that point he had lost all his pride, his dignity. He was shaking his head, he was pleading and begging, he was crying. When his eyes met those of his fellow inmate, he saw fear and grief. But there was understanding too. "Please do it," was what those eyes were telling him. A tenth shot rang out. They had broken him._

* * *

Enjolras is trembling from head to toe when he steps into his bedroom and closes the door behind him. He sinks down on his bed and lets his head rest against the wall. With some effort, he forces himself to block out the horrifying images that try to invade his mind. He has long since learned how to shut himself off from his memories. He would not have been alive if he hadn't learned to do that. But it's harder now that he is back. Now that he has to try to match his recent life with the one he had lived before the war. He doesn't recognize the person he used to be. It's not even a memory to him. It feels like that Enjolras is a different person, a faint acquaintance only. One he doesn't understand. He feels the same disconnection with the person he used to be as he feels with his friends. He knows they are there for him, knows they care about him and want to keep him safe. He knows he loves them and he knows he wants them around. But he doesn't understand them anymore. He spaces out when they speak to him. He can't relate to them. Not anymore. It feels like he's stuck in a raging fire and his friend can do nothing but watch it burn, they are no part of it. It feels like he's standing at one side of a cliff while his friends stand at the other. And there is no bridge to make the two come togehther.

He had not meant to say what he said. Those were secrets. Deep, dark secrets that no one was supposed to know. Guilt that he was meant to carry on his own for the rest of his life. But Gavroche had put him off guard and the words just slipped out.

Enjolras pulls his knees up and hooks his arms around his legs. He doesn't know how to do this. He doesn't know how to act in front of his friends. Doesn't know what he is supposed to say. He hates for them to worry and he doesn't want to see them troubled or pained because of him. He knows they long for him to be the person he used to be, but he can't. He isn't. And he never will be. Of course his friends will accept and love him, no matter what, but Enjolras can still feel their pain, their disappointment. He can see it when Combeferre tries to hide his tears. He can see it when Courfeyrac looks at his forehead instead of into his eyes. It's not the first time that he wishes he had died. He may have survived, but he's not alive. Not really. He's breathing and eating, but his mind is stuck at the camp. His body is still here, but his soul is desperately trying to move on.

He hears his door creak and he knows without opening his eyes that it's Combeferre. He loves his friend. Cares about him more than he has ever cared about anyone in his life. Enjolras knows how hard his friend is trying. How much he wants to help and how desperately he wants to be there for him. Enjolras wishes he was able to. He wants nothing more than to feel safe and loved again. But though Combeferre brings a warm feeling to his chest, he's still trapped in ice cold loneliness.

"Enjolras"

He feels the bed sink and he knows Combeferre is sitting down next to him. When he opens his eyes, he sees that not only Combeferre is there, but Courfeyrac as well. Enjolras tries to offer them a smile, but he can feel it turn into a grimace. He wants to say he's fine, wants to take their concern away. But he can't force the words past his lips. So instead he shifts and allows them both to climb on the bed, one on either side of him. Courfeyrac immediately curls around him and keeps a tight hold. Combeferre is a little more reserved and settles for a firm grip on his hand. Enjolras tries to draw comfort from them, tries so very hard. It hurts all the more when he fails. There is no getting passed the iron grip around his heart.

"I just needed a minute," Enjolras says quietly, resting his head on top of Courfeyracs soft brown curls. "I was planning to come out soon." It's a lie. He wasn't planning anything. But he thinks that's what his friend want to hear. It's the closest thing to I'm fine that he can manage to say.

"They've gone home," Combeferre answers softly. "They'll return tomorrow if you want them to."

Enjolras frowns and nods. He feels relieved that he doesn't have to face his friends after his little slip of a few moments ago. He thinks he can handle Courfeyrac and Combeferre. He knows they will not make him uncomfortable if they can help it.

"'Vroche says he's sorry," Courfeyrac mutters into Enjolras' chest. His voice is hoarse and raw. Small. Enjolras knows he's fighting against his tears. "He didn't mean to upset you… He was just nervous, I think."

Tears suddenly spring to his eyes when he hears those words. He hates this. He doesn't want his friends to be nervous around him. He doesn't want Gavroche, only a child, to feel uncomfortable and guilty because of him. "I know," Enjolras manages to say. It's hard to speak with his throat constricting the way it is. "I'm not upset with him... It's not his fault."

They are silent for a little while. Combeferre and Courfeyrac are content to have Enjolras close in between them, holding on to him, comforting him. And Enjolras doesn't have the heart to deny them.

"Do you want us to leave?" Combeferre asks kindly after a couple of minutes.

Enjolras thinks about it. It's a genuine question and he knows that they will go if he asks them to. But even though their presence does not do much to make him feel better, he does prefer to have them near. He prefers their company above being alone. He feels even less comfortable on his own. So he shakes his head and whispers 'no'.

"It will get better, Enjolras," Courfeyrac says softly, his voice finding strenght again. "I don't know when, but it will. Just watch and see."

Enjolras doesn't reply. He knows that Courfeyrac honestly believes that it will get better. But he doubts it. And he knows Combeferre doubts it too, because out of the corner of his eye he sees him duck his head and look away. It sends a painful pang straight to his heart. It hurts to see his friend lose faith.

"We will work on it together, all of us," Courfeyrac continues, "We might be a broken group now, but we'll rise from our ashes, I know we will. We will help each other, be there for each other. We will be honest and just in our judgements and we'll flourish. We all will... You will too Enjolras. We'll find new ways. We'll be the same again."

"No, we won't," Enjolras interrupts him, a little harsher than he meant to. He swallows and shifts a little. "I will never be who I was before, Courfeyrac. I can't and I don't want to. I don't even remember it. Too much has happened."

Courfeyrac shrugs and lets out a breath. "Then we'll be better," he says, making it sound simple and inevitable. "Because even the darkest days will eventually see the light again. Even the deepest pit will have a bottom. Even the longest night will know a morning. You taught me that once. And I'll teach it right back. I'll prove you right."

Enjolras listens to his friend and loves him for trying. He feels Combeferre squeeze his hand and he leans a little further in his friends' touch. They have every right to believe he will get better. They have every tight to try. Enjolras just hopes they won't be too devestated when they fail.

__

* * *

"Is it true what Gavroche said?" Enjolras asks quietly after a long while.

Combeferre chuckles. "About people calling you the Fiery Phoenix of France?" he answers, smiling when he hears Courfeyrac snort, "Why, do want it to be true?"

To his own amazement, Enjolras feels a smile tug at his lips and he ducks his head. "No, about people remembering my actions?"

Courfeyrac leans up on his elbows and lifts Enjolras' chin up. "Yes," he says seriously, "That is true. There's word of your actions, Enjolras. People know your name. France knows your name." Then he grins and slides of the bed to disappear into the living room.

Enjolras glances at Combeferre, who just shrugs his shoulders.

When Courfeyrac re-enters the room, he's holding a folded paper, which he gives to Enjolras. Enjolras opens it wordlessly and lets out a faint gasp of surprise. On the paper is a sketch of himself, surrounded by fire. He wears a fierce expression and his hair is glowing like a halo. His arms are replaced with red and golden wings and a French flag is wrapped around his waist. The picture is breathtaking and Enjolras can't tear his eyes away. It's not him... And yet it is. A strange feeling settles in his heart. A feeling he had thought long since gone.

"The Fiery Phoenix of France," Courfeyrac whispers. "It's been our symbol and icon since they took you away from us. Grantaire drew it."

Enjolras just stares at it, mesmerized. Then he suddenly thrusts the paper back into Courfeyracs hand. He's breathing rapidly and his eyes tear up. He feels confused. "Don't show this to me again...," he chokes out.

He misses the knowing look his two friends share when Courfeyrac takes the picture back.

TBC.

* * *

 

_(As you have noticed, I decided to put a flashback in this story. Please share your thoughts with me on this story and its development. It would mean a lot. Thank you!)_


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Hi guys! Thank you so much for the support on this chapter. I’m sorry it took me a while to get this up. Here’s the next installment. Hope you’ll like it)

Combeferre shifts slowly, carefully, on Enjolras’ bed. The three of them have been sitting there for quite some time now and his muscles start to ache from the position he’s in, but he doesn’t dare to move. Not now that Enjolras has finally fallen asleep and is resting comfortably against his chest. Not now that Courfeyrac has draped himself partly across Enjolras’ body – almost like a human blanket – in an attempt to shield his friend from all harm. Not now that for the first time since Enjolras’ return, he feels right. He’s at the right place, with the right people, drawing comfort from each other. And that is how it should be. How it should always be. So as long as Combeferre has his two best friends this close, resting peacefully against him, he will withstand all the muscle ache in the world.

He can almost pretend everything is alright. He can almost convince himself that nothing has changed. When he closes his eyes and focuses on the warmth of Enjolras’ body against him, he can almost imagine himself going back in time when life was relatively carefree and happy.

Almost.

And then Enjolras’ haunted face flashes before his eyes. Then he can see the hollow, glassy eyes, that are swimming with tears of fear and despair. He can feel the bony shoulders, the awfully skinny wrists, the emaciated chest. He can see the way Enjolras’ clothes hang shapelessly around his body… When he closes his eyes, reality slams into his chest like an iron anchor.

And so Combeferre forces his eyes open again. He turns his head a little and lets his cheek rest gently on top of Enjolras’ soft blonde hair. At least his younger friend allowed them this moment of intimacy. At least he didn’t shut them off. And for now, that was enough. They could and would work on the rest. Courfeyrac was right. They were all there for him, they were all prepared to help wherever they could. It would never be the same again, of that Enjolras was right. But maybe they could be different. Maybe they could be better. Combeferre wants to believe that. He has to believe that. It’s an extremely difficult thing to do when you look at Enjolras’ broken spirit, but Combeferre refuses to give up all hope. That’s not in his nature.

He knows the old Enjolras is still in there, somewhere. He is certain he saw it when Enjolras examined Grantaire’s drawing of him an hour earlier. He is certain he saw a flash of that defiant, passionate and belligerent nature in those bright blue eyes. And Combeferre knows Courfeyrac saw it too. If he knows his friend at all, he is sure that Courfeyrac showed Enjolras the picture for that exact reason. To make their friend remember who he is. Or was. To show him that that person is still there, even though he has suffered unimaginably, even though he might not ever be that person again. The fact that Enjolras suddenly couldn't look at the drawing anymore was proof that he had remembered who he was, what he stood for. And that had scared him.

Combeferre sighs quietly and brings his hand up to rub at his eyes. It must be nearing dinner time and is starting to get hungry. After breakfast, Enjolras had not eaten anything more because his stomach could not handle three meals a day yet. Combeferre had been too busy worrying about the blonde man to remember to eat lunch himself. He knew that if it was up to his friend, Enjolras would be fine living on just the bowl of fruit and yoghurt he had that morning, but Combeferre was going to insist that he eat something for dinner too. He wanted Enjolras back on a nutritious diet as soon as possible, so that he could rebuild his strength and gain some much needed weight.

Next to him, Enjolras shifts a little. Combeferre can feel the way Enjolras curls his hand into his blouse and holds the material in a death grip. When he looks closer, he can see that his friend’s eyes are moving rapidly behind their lids and his breath is coming out in quick gasps. Combeferre knows his friend is dreaming. And he is certain that those dreams are anything but pleasant. Nightmares. Enjolras is reliving his darkest moments, memories that Combeferre will probably never learn about. He feels conflicted. On the one hand, he really wants to wake his friend up. The fewer time he spends trapped in those memories, the better. Enjolras has been through enough. He doesn’t deserve to be plagued and haunted by bad dreams after he had survived the darkest nightmare in real life. On the other hand… Enjolras desperately needed the sleep. His body and mind were exhausted, sleep deprived. His friend had admitted that he hardly slept anymore, that he tried to fight it as much and as long as possible. But that afternoon, squished between the bodies of his two closest friends, sleep had come easily.

Combeferre looks down and gently noses the soft blonde hair. He hears Enjolras’ breath hitch and he sees how he squeezes his eyes tightly shut, curling into the protective chest of his oldest friend. He doesn’t wake. The movement does rouse Courfeyrac though, and the brown haired student slowly blinks his eyes open. He stays still for a second and then looks up to Combeferre, who gives him a small smile and presses a finger against his lips. Courfeyrac looks at Enjolras and grins. When he realizes he is still lying half on top of his friend, he carefully moves away until he’s sitting up straight with his back against the headboard, just as Combeferre. Enjolras’ stirs between them, but remains asleep.

“How long have we been out?” Courfeyrac whispers quietly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He yawns and pulls a hand through his tousled curls.

Combeferre leans in a little closer. “Not that long… An hour, give or take,” he says quietly. His eyes lock on those of Courfeyrac for a moment before shifting back to Enjolras. “I think he’s having a nightmare…”

Courfeyrac frowns and looks down at his friend. Indeed, Enjolras looks troubled and tense. His lips are moving at a rapid pace, but he doesn’t make any sound. Courfeyrac can’t make up what he is saying. Maybe he isn’t saying anything at all. “Don’t you think we should wake him, then?”

Combeferre lets out a small sigh. He shakes his head. “I don’t know, Courf… I want to, my heart tells me to… but –“

“But he needs his sleep,” Courfeyrac finishes quietly.

Combeferre nods. “Last night he told me he tries to fight it off as long as he can. Ever since the camp was liberated he’s having dreadful night terrors. He won’t say about what they are or why he only started having them after he was free, but I think it has something to do with guilt.”

“Guilt?” Courfeyrac mutters softly and he gives Combeferre a confused look. “Why guilt? He hasn’t done anything wrong…”

Combeferre shakes his head. He looks up at his friend with a sad look in his eyes. “Survivor’s guilt, Courf,” he whispers ruefully. “He feels guilty for being alive, for surviving the camps while so many others died. He won’t even allow himself to cry. He says it's not okay for him to cry. That he doesn't deserve to..."

Courfeyrac swallows thickly and looks away. He doesn't know what to say to that. After a few moments of silence, he focuses his attention back on Enjolras. "His lips are moving," he says softly, "But I can't make out what he's saying..."

"Sorry," Combeferre whispers, voice cracking a little, "He's saying 'sorry'."

Courfeyrac blows out a breath and sniffs a little. "I think we should wake him," he says after a couple of seconds. Combeferre can see the tears in his eyes and he reaches out over Enjolras to take his friend's hand. Courfeyrac looks up at him, his bottom lip trembling, and continues: "It's not fair for him to suffer like that, we need to wake him up, so he sees that we're here and that we've got his back. Please 'Ferre..."

Combeferre watches his friend and smiles sadly. He knows Enjolras needs his sleep and his rational self tells him to wait it out. Just a little while longer. But his heart twists and aches at the sight of Enjolras' troubled face and he finds himself agreeing with Courfeyrac.

And so he leans forward and gently starts to card his fingers through the short strands of hair

* * *

 

_Enjolras watches confused as he sees hundreds of people come marching into the camp that morning. They look terrible, like walking skeletons. He feels himself shiver as he takes in the empty look in their eyes and he wonders if he looks the same._

_He doesn't know where they come from or why they are here. Enjolras has been in Bergen Belsen for four months now. It was worse than Neuengamme in the way that Enjolras had to watch how some of the inmates were treated. His jewish comrades, the scum of the camp... It made him feel sick that there wasn't anything he could do for them. They kept the war prisoners seperated from the prisoners brought here because of their religion, or 'race', as the Nazi's said, except during work. Once or twice he had managed to split his meager meal with a young teenaged boy, but it had not been enough._

_There were no children in Bergen Belsen. Only those who were strong enough to work. The young teenaged boy he had met had only been thirteen years old. Enjolras had had no idea if the boy's mother and father were in the camp too. Even if he did, there was nothing he could do. They had pulled the dead boy away from his arms and took him somewhere Enjolras did not know. Never to be seen or heard from again._

_But these people, these hundreds of people stumbling and falling as they walked, come from someplace else and Enjolras doesn't understand. The camp is already loaded, far too crowded. Infected with disease and death and there is far too little food. More people die each day. It couldn't be because they needed more workers... One look at these people and one would know they wouldn't even make it through the morning._

_The camp staff is barking at them. Pushing and shoving them towards barracks that are already cramped._

_Enjolras quickly looks to the ground when a Kapo approaches him. He hates himself for trembling, but he can't help being scared. The bulky man pulls his head up by his hair and asks him if there is room left in their barrack. No, Enjolras says, they are already full. He sees the prisoners behind the Kapo shake with fear and they watch him with pleading eyes. Enjolras wants to help, but he can't. He has to choose for his fellow inmates now. There is no room for anyone else. It doesn't matter. The Kapo backhands him and forces ten new inmates into their barrack, anyway._

_Enjolras doesn’t sleep that night. It’s cold and there are too many sounds. Bugs are crawling their way through the thin blankets and inmates cough and turn every other second. He lies next to one of the new prisoners. A middle-aged man who is pressed against him and burns far too hot in a night as cold as this one. Enjolras asks where he comes from, where he was imprisoned before coming here. The man tells him he was in Auschwitz before, but the labor prisoners had to walk from there to Germany and were transported by train to Bergen-Belsen. Many of them died on the way. Enjolras feels a little hopeful. If the Nazi’s are transporting prisoners from Poland back to Germany, maybe that means the Allied forces are finally making progress._

_The man dies that night._

_Enjolras finds out in the morning when he turns and stares straight into a pair of hollow, empty eyes. It has happened before and it doesn’t even scare him anymore. Along with two of his fellow inmates, he carries the man down from the upper boards and lays him outside of their barrack. The body stays there for a week until it’s finally taken away._

_Enjolras is back at his barrack. He is alone, except for one figure sitting huddled in the corner. The figure is trembling and Enjolras wants to approach him, help him. He places his hand on the man’s shoulder. He jumps. It’s Grantaire._

_But it’s not Grantaire. It can’t be Grantaire, because Grantaire was safe and this man is wearing stripes. This man has his hair shaved. This man is so thin, Enjolras can see all his bones. His sunken cheeks too profound in his face. This man is scaring him, because he is crying and Enjolras doesn’t understand what to do. He can’t help. He tries to reach out, but something holds him in place. His arms are held tight behind his back. Enjolras tries to speak, but he can’t produce any sound._

_Behind him, someone moves and pulls out a gun. Enjolras turns and sees himself. He sees his stoic, cold self. He is wearing his red jacket and a French flag is wrapped around his waist. His curls surround his head like a halo. Enjolras is almost convinced he’s really seeing himself, but then his eyes fall on the small pin on his jacket. A Nazi pin. His heart rate picks up speed and he panics. He doesn’t understand what’s happening._

_Grantaire’s eyes shift from the real Enjolras to the Nazi-Enjolras and his eyes widen. He is begging for his life. He is saying how he has always done everything Enjolras asked of him. He’s pleading with Enjolras to understand, to have mercy. But the curly Enjolras only steps closer and presses the gun against Grantaire’s temple._

_Enjolras tries to scream. He tries to fight his way towards his friend. But it is no use. He can only watch and cry. ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry,’ he says, over and over again._   
_Grantaire looks back at him and shakes his head in disbelief. ‘Please…,’ he begs a final time. A small piece of paper falls from his hands. It’s a drawing. A Phoenix. The shot rings out._

* * *

  
“Enjolras! Enjolras, wake up mon petit ami. You’re having a nightmare.” The voice comes from far away and it’s hard to focus.

Large, soft hands caress his face and card through his hair. Another hand squeezes his forearm. “You are safe. It’s over, you’re back. Wake up, open your eyes. We’ve got you.”

Enjolras does what he is told and blinks his eyes open. Courfeyrac and Combeferre are both watching him with a worried frown. _Nightmare_ , Enjolras thinks. _It’s not real. It’s not all real_. He swallows thickly and sits up straight. The vision of Grantaire still swims before his eyes. He coughs and feels sick. When he thinks he might throw up, he pushes himself away from his friends and walks out of the bedroom. Buckling knees carry him to the bathroom where he collapses in front of the toilet and heaves violently.

He needs to get out. Get out now, clear his head.

There’s a hand rubbing gentle circles on his back. Another one presses a cold cloth against his forehead. Enjolras allows himself to lean into the touch for a moment. Then he turns away. He looks up at his two friends and feels his heart ache with love for them. He wants to collapse into their embrace, curl up next to them, hide away and forget about everything.

But the nightmare is vivid in his mind and he needs to get out. He needs to be alone.

And so, without any words, he brushes past Combeferre and Courfeyrac and walks towards the front door where he shrugs on his jacket.

“I need some air,” he says quietly, fighting against the tears when he sees Combeferre reach for his own coat. “I need to be alone for a while…”

Combeferre shakes his head and wraps his scarf around his neck. “I’m coming with you. You just threw up, you’re not going anywhere by yourself.”

Enjolras clenches his jaw. “I’m going out alone. I need to be alone, Combeferre. I won’t go far, I’ll be back soon. I need this. You told me to tell what I need. I need this. Don’t make it harder… please?”

Combeferre wants to protest, but Courfeyrac places a gentle hand on his shoulder, keeping him in place. Before Combeferre can say another word, the brown haired student nods and gives Enjolras a smile. “Don’t go too far. Come back soon… We’re here for you, my friend. Don’t shut us out… Please?”

Enjolras nods once and turns. He can just hear Combeferre call his name before the door falls shut behind him.

TBC.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s that… I tried to mingle Enjolras’ nightmare with some information about the camps. The middle aged man is talking about the Death Marches that happened when the Allied forces reached the camps in Poland and were close to liberation. A Kapo was a prisoner in a Nazi concentration camp who was assigned by the SS guards to supervise forced labor or carry out administrative tasks in the camp. Please let me know what you think of this chapter? It would mean a lot. Thank you!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Thank you all so much for the continued support on this fic. It’s been a while since I updated this story. I’m sorry for that. Today is a National Day of Mourning in the Netherlands where we remember the victims of the plane crash in Ukraine. I wanted to get this chapter out there as a small tribute, even though the subjects don’t correspond. My thoughts are with all the families and friends of the victims.

It is warm outside. Comfortably warm. It is one of those sweet, warm summer evenings that he used to love so much. He can still remember it. He remembers his frequent summer strolls through the park. Sometimes on his own, other times accompanied by one or two of his friends. He remembers watching happy couples sharing an ice cream, he remembers smiling at the children that were allowed to stay up a little later just so that they could play outside a little while longer, he remembers greeting the older men and women who sat quietly on a bench, enjoying each other’s company.

Yes, he used to love those nights. No matter how busy he was with school or work, he always made time to go outside for a walk. They calmed him down; comforted him whenever he felt upset; brightened his mood whenever he was troubled.

As he walks down the pavement, quietly making his way to the park, he remembers why he loved it so much. He remembers, but he doesn't feel it anymore. Not like he used to.

He keeps his head down and his shoulders hunched. He ignores the people around him as much as he can. There are still many of them outside, but nothing feels like it did before the war. Paris doesn't look like Paris. There is too much rumble and despair is still evident in the air. He can hear children crying, women begging as he makes his way to the park. He can see soldiers barking orders, gathering people. He can feel the weight of the gun against his hip, even though he knows it's no longer there.

Someone suddenly bumps into him and he can't help but flinch violently. He doesn't handle surprise movements that well. Not anymore. Nearly everything scares him these days, even though his rational mind knows that he is safe. He knows that the war is over and he knows that he is still alive, back with his friends, back in Paris. But he can't quite catch up emotionally. He can't convince his heart of the severe change yet. This was no longer his reality. It felt like a dream and he was afraid that he would wake up from it as soon as he allowed himself to really believe it.

The person that bumped into him gives him a confused look, shakes his head and continues on walking. He hears him mutter something about useless drug addicts and he shivers involuntarily.  
  
Is that what they think of him now? Is that what he looks like now that he doesn't wear his stripes anymore? A drug addict?

He catches a quick glance of himself in one of the shop windows and bites the inside of his cheek. He looks down again and continues walking. He doesn't really care what he looks like anymore. He hasn't cared about that for a very long time. And yet it still stings to hear someone refer to him as a drug addict. After all that he's been through. A pang of anger shoots through his heart and he frowns. He isn't used to feeling angry anymore. It has been a useless emotion for months, an emotion that brought nothing but pain and death. But now it flares hot and he almost turns around to confront the man.

Then the anger turns into fear.

Fear for remembering and recognizing parts of himself that he had thought long since gone. Anger, justice, passion and equality. Just as Grantaire's sketch had done, the comment by the man ignited a fire deep within him that had burned out a long time ago and it confused him. He didn't know how to act on those feelings. It didn't feel like him anymore and that scared him.

He shakes his head and shoves his hands deep into his pockets. As he walks on, his thoughts drift to the nightmare he had earlier that afternoon. It wasn't the first time he dreamed about the sudden income of new prisoners; it wasn't the first time he dreamed about the older man and it wasn't even the first time he dreamed about himself pulling the trigger on other inmates. And even though those dreams never got less horrible, he knew them and he had learned how to block them out. But never before had he dreamed about one of his friends in those situations. And dreaming about Grantaire, wearing inmate clothes, begging for his life, made him feel sick and disgusted. During his time in the camps, there was one thing that kept him going and that was knowing that his friends were alive and safe. He used to dream about them being happy. He didn't know if he could handle seeing them die now that he finally got them back.

He is terrified of losing them.  
  
He curls a little more in on himself when tears cloud his vision. He doesn't want them to fall. He doesn't want to cry. Not now, not ever. He feels like he doesn't deserve to cry. He survived when so many didn't. _Why? Why him? What made him so special? Was it punishment? Live the rest of his life stuck in this horror filled nightmare?_

When he arrives at the sign he knows so well, he looks up and lets out a deep breath. He hasn't been here for such a long time. It still looks the same: the iron, green gate, the statues, the trees, the flowers, the fields of soft, fresh grass. It used to fill him with harmony and contentment. Now it hurts his heart to look at the park’s beauty.

He has missed it more than he imagined.

Small, hesitant steps take him through the gate and towards his familiar bench near the fountain. He sits down and buries his head in his hands for a moment as he tries to concentrate on the sound of the wind and the chirping birds.

It almost works. But there are some sounds, some images, he can't block out.

He sniffs and clenches his jaw as he thinks back to one of the times he came here with Combeferre. He had been in a bad place then, losing both his mother and father in an accident. It happened only a few months after he moved to Paris to study law and it made his whole world crash down on him. He had a rough time dealing with the loss and he knew that without Combeferre his life could have turned out quite differently. It was Combeferre who took him to the park the first time. Who learned him how to draw strength from the nature around him. Who taught him how to focus on the good things in life and on the best memories he had lived.

He tries to put his best friend's teachings into practice, but he can't. Not now. Not with this. Not by himself.

A soft tap on his shoulder pulls him out of his pondering and he jumps in shock. When he turns around on the bench, his eyes meet with those of a young girl. A child. With shiny dark locks of hair and tidy clothes. She smiles at him and taps his shoulder again.

He swallows nervously, not really knowing how to respond to the child. She looks so innocent, with big brown eyes, and he can't help but think back to the few children he met during his imprisonment. All so innocent as well.

He smiles back at her, but the action feels weird and out of place. He quickly turns around again and stares at the fountain, trying very hard not to think about the thirteen year old child that died of disease only days before their camp was liberated.

The dark haired girls was determined though. She walks around the bench and sits down next to him, looking up at his face expectantly and tapping his shoulder again.

He takes a deep breath and meets her eyes once more. "Something I can help you with, little girl?" He asks softy. "Did you lose your mother?"

The girl shakes her head and points somewhere in the direction of the fountain. He follows her finger and sees two women chatting there. They look rich, haughty and he can't help but dislike them already.

"Are you ill?" The girl asks him straight on. "You look ill. Shouldn't you be in bed? Nana always tells me to rest as much as possible when I'm ill. She cuddles me a lot and makes me soup and sometimes she convinces my mommy to read me a bed time story. Do you have someone to read you a bed time story? Do you eat enough? You look so skinny. Nana always tells me to eat enough so that I become a strong, tall girl! How old are you?"

His head is spinning. All these questions... He wants her to leave. The girl looks at him expectantly and taps his shoulder again.

“No, I’m not ill…,” he says quietly, forcing himself to keep eye contact with the girl. “And I am fine, I am just enjoying an evening at the park. You should return to your mother, alright?”

He hopes she’ll go. He doesn’t want to speak to her any longer. Doesn’t know what to say or how to act. He feels vulnerable around her and he has the unpleasant feeling that her innocent eyes can see straight into his soul.

The girl cocks her head to the side and purses her lips. She looks like she’s trying to figure out if she should do as he said or remain seated next to him. Then her face breaks out into a smile again and she throws her arms around him. He flinches away from her in shock, but she holds on.

“You need a hug. Nana says when people are sad, hugs make them feel better. You look sad.”

It takes a few moments for his heart to calm down, but then he feels himself relax, melting into her embrace. It’s funny. He doesn’t know this girl at all. He has never been all that comfortable around children and he definitely never appreciated intimate contact without his permission. Especially not from strangers. But this girl’s action does something to him. It warms his heart in a strange sort of way and before he realizes what he’s doing, he’s hugging her back and biting his lip hard to keep the tears from falling.

He craves it. He craves the contact, the comforting touch, from other people. From his friends, from this girl. It’s a peculiar realization. He never valued physical contact that much before, but that was before it was forcefully, brutally taken away from him. He never thought he’d ever hug another person again. He never thought someone would ever hold him again.

The realization that he wants the contact, needs it more than he has ever needed it before, slams into him like an iron anvil. He doesn’t know why it took the embrace of this girl to get to that conclusion while both Combeferre and Courfeyrac had hugged him plenty as well, but he thinks it has something to do with the dedication this strange girl threw her arms around him. There was no insecurity, no caution, no reticence.

When he pulls back, the girl is still smiling at him and pats his back.

He still doesn’t know what to say to her or how to act, so he decides to imitate her and he smiles back. “Thank you,” he whispers softly.

“You’re very welcome, I do ho-…,” the girl begins to say, but before she can finish her sentence, the rich-looking women come walking towards them, angry expressions on their faces.

“Anne!” A women with the same dark hair calls. He presumes that must be the girl’s mother. “Anne, get away from there. Get away from him.”

When she gets close, she grabs the girl by her arm and yanks her away from the bench. She gives him a look of disgust before turning on her daughter again. “What have I told you about these people? You don't talk to them. You don’t interact. They could be dangerous.”

The girl gives him a confused look and he can feel that familiar swirl of anger again.  
“But, maman, he looks sad and Nana always says you should try and make sad people feel better.”

The woman looks at him again and he feels the urge to curl in on himself, shield himself from her scrutinizing gaze. At the same time however, he wants to hold up his chin, be defiant and strong.

“I don’t care what Nana says, Anne, she is just a maid, she doesn’t know anything. I don’t want you talking to them. Look at him. They’re not even human anymore.”

That sends a shiver down his spine and his heart twists painfully. _They’re not even human_. Is this the treatment he gets after months of hell? Is this the treatment all returned captives get? Is this what people tell their children when they turn down those who were once their neighbors, their friends? Is this the injustice he deserves after years of fighting for freedom? Is this the injustice others deserve after losing relatives and getting acquainted with the darkest evil ever lived?

He clenches his fists and feels his blood boil. He narrows his eyes at the woman and wants nothing more than to stand tall and yell at her. Make her see how wrong she is. How disrespectful, how unworthy.  
But the woman is already pulling her daughter away without sparing him another glance.

“I hope you feel better soon,” the girl says quietly, looking back at him with one last smile, until her mother’s grip is too powerful and she has to turn away.

He is shaking from head to toe. Anger pulses through him and his stomach makes violent flips. He feels sick and disgusted. Outraged by the approach of this woman. Bewildered by her false assumptions of those taken prisoner. He wants to hit something, he wants to yell and he wants to cry.

Countless thoughts run through his mind and he tries to determine on which one he should act. Just when he’s ready to stand and go after the woman, he feels a soft hand on his shoulder pushing him back down.

“Don’t,” someone says softly and he turns around to see Cosette. She is smiling sadly at him. “She’s not worth it, Enjolras. Leave it be, ignore her and her words.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but the words turn to ash in his mouth and before he knows it all anger disappears from his body, replaced by a poignant feeling of lose and incomprehension. He sinks back down to the bench and hides his face behind his hands again until there’s a gentle arm thrown around his shoulder and a soft kiss pressing against his temple.

He leans into Cosette’s touch, then, and buries his face in the crook of her neck. He has been close to the girl, even though it took him a while to get used to her. He can still remember his annoyance when Marius wouldn’t shut up about her.

“I don’t understand,” he hears himself say, frowning at the weakness and insecurity in his voice. “It confuses me. Everything confuses me… Cosette… She called me inhuman… How can I… I don’t…”

He is so shocked by that woman’s treatment of him that he doesn’t know how to express it in words. He can’t believe it. He doesn’t want to believe it.

Cosette squeezes his shoulder and lets her head rest against that of her good friend. “She’s not worth it, Julien,” she repeats softly. “She the one who doesn’t understand. This has nothing to do with you, she’s a despicable woman and believe me when I say that people like her are the minority. I promise. Don’t let her get to you.”

He huffs and shakes his head. “She makes me feel angry,” he confesses quietly. “I haven’t felt angry for such a long time… It scares me. I don’t recognize it anymore.”

Cosette tilts his chin up and looks him in the eye. “You have every right to feel angry. You have every right to feel confused. You have every right to be upset. Don’t deny yourself that right, Julien. Remember who you are, remember what you once stood for.”

He nods against her shoulder, then and gave up on fighting his tears. He let them flow freely, without a sound, knowing that Cosette would not judge him. None of his friends would judge him. If only he was able not to judge himself.

“How did you know I was here?” He asks after a few moments of silence. “Did Combeferre contact you?”

He can feel Cosette shake her head against his. “No… Don’t you remember? I often take strolls down the park with my father or with Marius… I’ve walked with you plenty of times. It clears my head and allows me to calm my heart. I needed that today, after not being able to visit you this afternoon. I’m so very sorry, Julien. I wanted to be there… But papa isn’t doing well and I needed to stay at home. When Marius returned home, I took the opportunity to go outside for a bit… I had not expected to find you here.”

He nods again and smiles when she takes his hand and kisses the knuckles. “I needed to get out… Haven’t been her for so long and I just… I just needed to get out.”

He doesn’t know how to explain it, but Cosette doesn’t ask him to elaborate. She just holds him a little while longer and watches the fountain.

“You know the first time I came here, I was still a little girl. I was only living with Papa for a couple of months and I had never seen a park before. He took me in the fall when it was still comfortable outside. We sat on this very bench, you know. Watched the fountain together. I’ve loved this place ever since. It brings me peace on chaotic days and it calms me down when I’m upset. The trees, the grass, the flowers, the birds… They all make me feel better… Even when Paris was still occupied, this place never lost its magic or its beauty. I’ve always been able to draw strength from it.”

He lets out a small breath and closes his eyes, listening to the sound of Cosette’s voice and the soft clattering of the water.

“I know it will do the same for you. It has done the same for you… Maybe it will take a little longer and maybe it will never fully heal you, but I’m sure it will help. A bit of normalcy and harmony amidst all that confusion and desperation going on in your head…”

She kisses the soft strands of hair and falls quiet. It amazes her that she and Enjolras have grown so close over the years. She loves him like a brother.

They stay like that for another twenty minutes. Then Cosette stands and pulls Enjolras up with her. “Come,” she says softly, “It is getting late and you should get back home. Combeferre will be worried.”

He allows her to guide him out of the park and back towards his shared apartment. It takes a while for the words to really sink in. Then they make him smile. It sounds so normal, so natural. _Combeferre will be worried_. They make him feel so loved.

 


	8. Chapter 8

Combeferre reluctantly opens his eyes again when he's certain sleep won't come to him. It doesn't matter that he's tired. His mind is far too much occupied to find rest or peace. He has tried to empty his head, tried not to think about anything, but it was no use. Not when every sound and every movement triggered his mind into thinking something was wrong.

He carefully shifts onto his back and untangles his arm from Enjolras' sleeping form. His blond friend stirs, nose scrunching a little bit upwards, but he doesn't wake. Combeferre watches how the creases on his friend's face soon smooth out until he's once again lost in a peaceful slumber.

It's been three weeks since Enjolras' return.

And the passing of the time has done nothing to settle the growing concern in Combeferre's stomach. Of course he had known that Enjolras would have difficulty adjusting to his life back in Paris, but he had hoped that, gradually, his friend would have started to heal. In fact, Enjolras was doing no better than he had when he stumbled into the apartment three weeks ago. Combeferre was starting to fear he was doing worse.

Certainly, physically Enjolras was looking much better. He was finally able to eat three meals a day and he was even recognizing the feeling of being hungry again, which was something special indeed since his body had learned itself to run on far too little food for such a long time. It still confused him when his stomach asked for more food after he had finished his portion. Combeferre was glad to see that Enjolras was starting to gain a little weight. He was still horribly skinny, but at least his bones weren't protruding as sharply from under his skin as they had been three weeks earlier. On top of that, Enjolras was starting to regain some colour on his cheeks, which gave him a much healthier appearance.

So, yes, physically Combeferre had to agree Enjolras was doing better...

It was his friend's mental state that the medical student was worried about. Ever since he got back, Enjolras had been drawing further and further into himself. He hardly ever spoke, he never smiled and he was in constant need of physical contact, of being close to another human being. He followed Combeferre around nearly everywhere and if for whatever reason Combeferre had to leave the apartment, he would follow around one of his friends who had come to keep an eye on him on Combeferre's behalf.

At first, Combeferre had been pleasantly surprised by the sudden intimacy his friend longed for and he gladly gave it to him. Truth be told, it made him feel better too when he could hold Enjolras' hand or press a kiss to his friend's forehead. But as time went by, Enjolras got increasingly clingy and Combeferre was starting to worry, because this wasn't who Enjolras was...

Or at least, it wasn't who he used to be.

Combeferre wasn't the only one to pick up on Enjolras' changing behaviour. Now that Enjolras was back home, all of their friends made sure to pay him a visit as often as possible. And their concern was starting to grow just as much as Combeferre's was. Most of them were ready to accept that the Enjolras they had known was long gone and would never come back. Even Courfeyrac, who at first was certain that the old Enjolras was still in there somewhere, was starting to get doubtful. His attempts of trying to get his friend enthusiastic about this pamphlet or that meeting were getting less powerful. Instead, he tried to be content with sitting on the couch next to a sleepy Enjolras who had curled in on him. Combeferre knew his friend did his best to stay optimistic, but he could clearly see the hope escaping him with each passing day.

Combeferre rubs a tired hand across his face, then quietly slides out from under his blankets and steps out of the bed.

The nights are still the hardest.

Enjolras hasn't slept in his own bed for a single night, he hasn't even tried after the very first time three weeks ago. On Combeferre's request and vow that he would wake his friend up if necessary, Enjolras has given up on fighting sleep. Instead, he gives in to his exhaustion and lets his mind take him back to those dark memories until he's screaming and Combeferre finally wakes him up. Then the whole process starts over again, all through the night. This results in too little sleep for both Enjolras and Combeferre, but to the medical student it beats the alternative, which is Enjolras refusing sleep until he makes himself ill.

It's only early in the mornings that Enjolras' memories stop haunting him and allow him to fall into a somewhat peaceful slumber like the one he is in now. By that time, Combeferre's mind is usually too troubled to let itself fall back asleep. Since Enjolras doesn't want to speak about his experiences out loud, it is during the night that Combeferre learns about some of the horrors his friend has had to go through during his imprisonment. It's never much and it's certainly never enough for Combeferre to even grasp a glimpse of the full memory, but the whimpers, pleas and screams that come from his friend do make sure that he won't find sleep again that night.

Combeferre softly tiptoes his way out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. He tries to be as quiet as possible and hopes he can keep Enjolras asleep for at least a couple of hours, because God knows his friend needs it. Once outside, he gently closes the bedroom door behind him and pours water into the kettle to make himself some tea and breakfast. He decides to prepare Enjolras' breakfast as well, because it usually never takes long for his friend to wake up once Combeferre is no longer next to him in the bed. As he rummages around the kitchen, he makes sure to listen at his bedroom door every once in a while to check Enjolras is still sleeping peacefully. He doesn't want his friend to suffer from another nightmare for a minute longer than necessary.

As Combeferre sips his tea, sitting at the kitchen table, he thinks over the past three weeks and all that has happened since. It's hard for him to follow the news nowadays, because he's afraid that something on the television or in the newspaper will trigger a bad memory, flashback or panic attack in Enjolras. And so Combeferre relies mostly on his friends to keep him up to date about the developments in post-war France.

It is a not a happy period.

The happiness that flourished through the Parisian streets after the Nazi's were finally defeated, has started to wear off and France is facing severe economical, geographical and psychological troubles. The country was practically stripped bare by the Germans during the war and had difficulty looking after it's own people and rebuilding it's society. As many other European countries, France has to deal with the many displaced people that are now living in the country and the many citizens that still seek to return. On top of that, the government is facing difficulties in it's colonial empire where inhabitants are starting to claim independance from their rulers. According to Courfeyrac, many of their safe houses are still cramped with people who have lost their homes and families and who have no where to go. In short, it's a mess.

With a pang of grief Combeferre remembers that these were things Enjolras liked to be involved in. These were things that he would be passionate about. There was a time when Enjolras gave one rant after the other about France's grip on her colonies. There was a time when Enjolras would be furious to know that a Jewish family couldn't return to their home and their belongings because it had been claimed by someone else. But when Courfeyrac told them about it, Enjolras had only stared blankly ahead. The tightening of his hand around that of Combeferre the only sign that he had heard what had been said.

Even though Combeferre and every one of the Amis would always love Enjolras and accept him the way he was, it did feel like they had lost their true leader. That Enjolras, the old Enjolras, had died during the War and the Amis were mourning his loss.

Combeferre quickly wipes a tear away from his eyes before it has the chance to fall. He feels horrible. He should be grateful that he still has his friend, he shoudn't be whining about how he has changed. Was he such an awful friend? How dare he? It feels like betrayal of the worst kind.

He tries to remember what Cosette told him a few weeks ago, when she brought Enjolras back home after he'd rushed out of the apartment in blind panic. Combeferre had been incredibly worried for his friend had stayed out much longer than he promised he would and Combeferre had no idea where he had gone.

_"He's still in there Combeferre, I've seen it. He's still there... He's just scared. Scared of himself, of what he used to be. He needs to learn again, believe again, dare again... He needs to live again."_

Cosette was the only one of their friends who was still certain that Enjolras would come back to himself one day, though she, too, knew he would never be fully the same. She visited Enjolras often and when she did, the two of them could spend hours together in Enjolras' bedroom. Combeferre even thought he had once heard his friend laugh in her presence, but he wasn't sure. He wished he could make Enjolras laugh again. Not the watery, melancholic smile he sometimes got now, but really laugh.

For the hundredth time Combeferre wonders what had happened while Enjolras went out alone. Of course, he hadn't been doing good before, but the medical student was sure that he was doing worse after. Cosette had told him a little bit about it, but she didn't know the full story and she thought it better if Enjolras told it himself.

But Enjolras didn't want to talk about it. Every time Combeferre brought it up, his friend turned tearful eyes to him and pleaded to let it go.

And so Combeferre did let it go. Every single time. Because he was terrified that Enjokras would only lock himself further away from them all if he was pushed into talking about things he didn't want to talk about.

Combeferre is so far sunken into thought, he almost doesn't hear it when the door to his bedroom opens. A quick glance at the clock tells him Enjolras has only been asleep for a small hour longer, which puts his total of this night on a solid five and a half hours. He shouldn't complain, that's way more than he usually gets.

Enjolras rubs his eyes with his fists as he shuffles into the kitchen - making him look like a sleepy child more than anything else - and slumps down in a chair next to Combeferre.

Combeferre no longer tries to be surprised when Enjolras pulls his seat a little closer to that of his friend and leans his head on his shoulder. There used to be a time when Enjolras would rush by him in the morning, cup of coffee in one hand, paper in the other, and hurry out of the apartment with only as much as a quick call of goodbye. Combeferre forces the memory away. He'd never thought that would be one of the things he'd miss about his friend...

"Morning," Enjolras mumbles softly as he takes the cup of tea that Combeferre offers him. His voice is still thick with sleep and Combeferre knows he must've jumped out of bed the second he realized he was there alone.

"Morning," Combeferre replies, kissing his friend chastily on the top of his head. He smiles a little when the short curls tickle his nose. He's glad that Enjolras' hair has started to grow back into it's usual brilliance. At least that will be something that hasn't changed. "You slept a good hour longer this morning, that's good."

Enjolras only hums in return and takes a tentative bite of one of the crackers Combeferre made for him. He's still careful when he eats. Almost as if a part of him fears that it'll be taken away from him at any time.

"Do you have to leave today?" Enjolras asks him quietly after a few minutes of silence, taking another bite and chewing it slowly.

He asks the same question every morning.

"No," Combeferre answers patiently, "No, I don't have anywhere to be today. It's a Sunday, remember? I don't work on Sundays."

That's another thing that has changed. Enjolras is often so far drawn within himself, that he loses track of time and even days.

Enjolras frowns and blushes a little. Combeferre can see him bite his lip and knows that his friend is chastising himself for forgetting. He doesn't blame Enjolras for it, of course. It's only the second week he has started to gradually go back to work again. It hasn't been an easy transition for Enjolras.

"Oh," Enjolras breathes and he nods. "I knew that... I'm sorry... I-I guess I just... I didn't realize it was Sunday already."

Combeferre's feels that, now familiar, ache in his heart again, but forces himself to smile. "That's okay, mon Ami. Don't worry about it."

Enjolras is silent again, but leans a little closer to Combeferre. He doesn't say anything anymore during breakfast. Combeferre is quiet too, giving Enjolras the time to get over his self-annoyance.

"Will anyone stop by today?" Enjolras asks as he carefully carries his, now empty, plate to the sink. "I haven't seen Grantaire in a while... Is he doing okay?"

Also a question Enjolras asks him almost every day. _Is Grantaire okay?_ He figures it must have something to do with his nightmares and the fact that their friend is of Jewish decent. He's heard Enjolras mumble Grantaire's name in his sleep a number of times now.

Combeferre stands from his chair in the kitchen and walks back to his bedroom to get dressed. He knows Enjolras is following him. "Actually," he begins, as he changes out of his sleepshirt and into something more decent, "I was thinking we could do the visiting today? It's nice weather out and I could use some fresh air... We could walk along the Seine, maybe have a drink at a Café, sit on the terrace and see which of our friends are home. Some might even want to join us. We'll stop by 'Taire first, if you want? He lives nearby..."

He watches Enjolras carefully as the blonde sits down on the bed and pulls his knees up. He doesn't look all that excited about going outside and Combeferre once again wonders what exactly happened three weeks ago.

"You used to love our walks along the Seine, Julien," Combeferre tries quietly, sitting down next to his friend on the bed. "I think it might do you some good... Get out of the apartment for a bit, clear your head... We can visit the market if you want? Or maybe the Louvre? It's been a while since you've been there... Or Montmartre... Or Jardins du Luxembourg?"

Enjolras still looks very uncertain and Combeferre feels his heart sink. He really does want to take his friend outside for a bit. It's not good for anyone to stay inside for so long.

"We don't have to go long...," Combeferre tries a final time.

To his relief and utmost happiness, Enjolras finally nods. His friend stares down at his lap and fumbles with the sleeves of his shirt as he does so. It is every bit clear that his friend only agrees to go with him, because he doesn't want to disappoint him nor does he want to stay alone. But for now Combeferre doesn't care. He'll take it anyway.

"J-Just a bit then," Enjolras says softly, standing up to go change himself. "But I don't want to go the Luxembourg... Maybe...Maybe we can go somewhere near Île de la Cité?"

He waits until Combeferre nods and then turns to disappear into his own room. He still doesn't want to get dressed in front of his friend, even though Combeferre already knows all about the scars that decorate Enjolras' body. It's hard not to notice when they're already visible if his shirt rides up a mere few inches.

As the two of them step outside, Combeferre hopes that Enjolras' second time outside the apartment will be better than the first. He hopes they can spend this day enjoying the first summer in a free Paris since years. He smiles at his younger friend and feels his heart lift as Enjolras smiles back at him.

Unfortunately, for someone as troubled and traumatized as Enjolras, setbacks are never far behind...

 **Tbc**.


	9. Chapter 9

_(Hi guys! Thank you for the support on this story. It really means a lot to me. Out of all my stories, this is the one that I hold closest to heart. So thank you! I hope you'll like the next chapter.)_

* * *

The sun shone bright that day, warming the cobblestones and making the river sparkle. It was a joyous afternoon. Just the right side of warm with a comfortable breeze. It was no surprise that many people had decided to go out that day. The terraces were full, children were laughing and street artists were just starting to set up their work place. You didn't have to try hard to smell the scent of crepes and croissants in the air.

To the naked eye it was a glorious Summer day. A glistering cover that hid away the dirt and destruction of the War. On a day like this, it was hard to imagine that it was only such a short while ago that Paris had been in ruins. Most people tried not to imagine it at all. It was best to move on from all the pain and fear. People wanted to look towards the future, not the past. That was also the message that the government tried to put across. To rebuild a wrecked society, it was necessary to move forward, to combine strengths and be a strong, united nation again.

But while most wanted nothing more than to forget the horrors that happened and work together to build a brighter future, it wasn't as easy a task for others. For those who still suffered nightmares. For those who were forced to say their loved ones goodbye. For those who didn't know how to connect to a new world.

For those who had lost everything.

For them it was hard to feel the warmth and happiness flowing from a Summer day such as this one. It was confusing and complicated. But they still tried. If only to reassure the heavy hearts of those who loved and tried to help them.

Enjolras was one of those people.

He walked alongside of his friend with a forced smile glued to his lips. Was he happy? No, not at all. But the way Combeferre's eyes had lit up when he agreed to go outside with him made Enjolras determined to at least try and make it seem like he was enjoying it. It was the least he could do after everything Combeferre had done for him, was still doing for him. If going outside for a stroll along the Seine was enough to unburden Combeferre's heart, then Enjolras would abide.

"Grantaire and Éponine moved here shortly after Paris was freed," Combeferre told him as they walked along the Quai d'Orsay. "Courfeyrac arranged it as soon as it was safe for them to go outside again. It isn't much, but it's better than the room in which they had to hide during the War. Although I do think Monsieur and Madame de Bonfault miss them. Éponine told me they visit the old couple every week. Gavroche still lives there by the way… He has the whole room to himself now, which is good, I think. I mean, I don't want him and Éponine to be separated, but I think it's best for Gavroche. De Bonfaults want to care for him and this way he has the best chance for a bright future… Don't you think?"

Enjolras had only partly been listening to his friend, but when he was asked the question he looked up, smiled and nodded. Apparently that was enough for Combeferre, because his friend turned forward again and continued talking.

Enjolras felt his smile fade a little and looked down to his feet, watching them as they moved across the cobblestone road. He tried to remember a time before the War when he had travelled this same road, but he couldn't. It was strange. Of course he knew about the life he had lived before he was taken captive by the Nazi's. He knew all about it. He knew the facts and the memories, he knew his friends, his family, his time at the University, his first speeches. But though he knew them, he couldn't remember them. In his mind, there was only a vague image of a life someone close to him had lived.

And it confused him greatly, because no matter how much he tried, he couldn't reconnect to the person he used to be. He understood him and admired him, but he couldn't be him. Yet then there were those times, like when Courfeyrac showed him Grantaire's sketch or when some woman in the park lashed out at him. And at those times, his old self came bubbling to the surface with such great force that it scared him immensely. At those times Enjolras got so confused and so insecure, he locked himself away in his mind as some form of self-protection.

Lately he had been locking himself away almost 24/7. It was just easier that way. Enjolras knew that I was odd, but to him it was easier to deal with all the horrors and nightmares of the past year than deal with the memories of the life he used to lead. The gap between the two was just too deep, too far and Enjolras didn't have the energy or the will to try and bridge it. Dealing with the horrors and nightmares wasn't easy either, but at least it was something he was used to. He had been doing it for nearly a year now and he knew what to expect and how he'd react.

Of course he wasn't oblivious to how his behavior affected Combeferre and the others. He could clearly see that they were losing their hope. Courfeyrac had even started to avoid certain subjects and he no longer tried to enthuse him for politics. Enjolras knew they were hurting. He knew they were mourning the person he had once been and they had every right to do so. But he _had_ warned them, hadn't he? Three weeks ago, when Courfeyrac was determined they could turn things around, Enjolras had told them he would never be the person he used to be. He had hoped to spare them the disappointment, but apparently he had been wrong. Their disappointment and desperation – however silent they were about it – overwhelmed him at times and it made him feel like a failure.

And exactly that feeling was the most confusing of all. It was the point where all his conflicting thoughts came together. No longer being that person that his friends wanted him to be, but at the same time being exactly that person, the person he that he didn't remember but did recognize. He felt like he was failing at something he didn't know how to change.

"I'm really glad you decided to come out with me."

Enjolras looked up at Combeferre when his friend nudged him with his shoulder. He smiled and nodded again.

"It's not good for someone to sit inside for such a long time. People need sunlight… See the outside world… I know it's hard for you, but I'm really proud that you came with me. Do you remember the last time we walked this route?"

Enjolras did. But whatever feeling Combeferre was trying to ignite in him, he knew it wouldn't work.

"We were on our way to celebrate Courf's birthday… It was snowing back then, do you remember? And do you remember how cold it was that night? You went out with just your jacket on… I can still see the look on your face when you stepped outside and realized I was right, but you refused admit it or to go back inside and change… Well, you took your revenge on me for my gloating… pushing that snowball in my face."

Combeferre grinned at him and Enjolras did his best to return the gesture.

"Anyway, it was quite a nice walk… With the snow and all the lights… You could almost ignore the army vans and Nazi uniforms… We actually took a detour to stay out a little longer, despite the fact that you were freezing your butt off. That was the evening you told me about your decision to actively help the French Resistance… You were going to announce it to all of us that night, but you decided to tell me first… I have always wondered… Just because you made the decision alone… did you think we wouldn't follow you there?"

The question took Enjolras off guard and his smile faltered. He looked back down at the ground and slowly shook his head. No, he had always known they would follow him down that path. He knew that they were just as determined as he had been to fight back. But he remembered that a part of him had hoped that they wouldn't follow him… It was a dangerous road and he had wanted his friends to be safe. Especially those who were already vulnerable because of their heritage.

"I had no doubt you would," Enjolras answered quietly, then shrugged his shoulders. "But I wanted you all to make that decision individually, and not as a group for the risk of peer pressure… I wanted everyone to really think about the risks that it would bring… And I didn't want to lead you into something you didn't want, that's why I only told you all after I had already joined."

Combeferre was silent for a moment. Then he sniffed and whispered softly: "I would have followed you into the camps if I could."

That statement did different things to Enjolras. On the one hand he was extremely touched, because there was only honesty and love in Combeferre's voice. To say a thing like that was undying prove that their bond was something that would never be broken. But on the other hand it angered and scared him too, because how could Combeferre say something like that after seeing firsthand what it had done to his best friend.

Enjolras shook his head and stopped walking. When he looked up at his friend, he could see that his eyes were tearing up and it once again reminded him of how hurt his friends were too. How damaged, how broken. All in their own way. His anger ebbed away as instantly as it had come up and he let out a deep sigh.

"You shouldn't say things like that 'Ferre…," he said quietly. "Not to me… You don't understand…"

"Exactly," Combeferre interrupted him fiercely. "Exactly. You don't tell me anything. I don't understand… I'll _never_ understand, because I wasn't _there_. And I'll never forgive myself for it."

Enjolras gave his friend an incredulous look and opened his mouth to say more, but Combeferre held up his hand to silence him and turned towards one of the houses situated at the street.

"I don't want to discuss this right now… Besides we're here, so… Let's just try and make this a nice afternoon, yeah?"

Enjolras was surprised by Combeferre's sudden short tone. He didn't agree with his friend. He thought it was positively ridiculous that Combeferre would say something like that, would even _think_ something like that. As if their life wasn't complicated enough already… Now he had to add guilt to the pile? Guilt for not suffering the horrors Enjolras has suffered? How dare he? Enjolras wouldn't have wished his experiences on his worst enemies. He felt his anger grow again, clenched his teeth and frowned, but chose not to say anything more on it. He didn't have the will to argue, especially not about this subject.

The two friends waited in uncomfortable silence for Grantaire to open the door. It was a Sunday, so Combeferre had been sure that his friend would be home. At first he had rather spent the afternoon with Enjolras alone, but now that he realized he had offended his best friend somehow, he was glad that Grantaire was probably going to join them.

When their friend opened the door, it was obvious that out of all people Combeferre and Enjolras were the last ones he'd expected. His mouth dropped open a little and his eyebrows raised a couple of inches. Then he shook his head and smiled. A genuine, bright smile.

"What a great surprise," he said brightly, "I was having an extremely boring day, so you have no idea how good it is to see some friends. To what do I owe this pleasure?" He looked from Enjolras to Combeferre and then back to Enjolras again. The blonde man looked very tense and not at all happy to be there. It was pretty clear that he wasn't going to answer the question, so Grantaire fixed his gaze back on Combeferre again.

"We just wondered if you'd like to join us this afternoon," Combeferre answered kindly after throwing Enjolras a nervous glance. "It's a beautiful day and I thought it would do us some good to go outside. We're on our way to île de la Cité, go for a cup of coffee or something and then head..."

"Are you alright?" Enjolras promptly interrupted Combeferre, looking up briefly before casting his eyes down again. "I was just… I was wondering if you were doing okay… I mean… well, are you?"

Grantaire threw Combeferre a questioning look, but all his friend did was shrug. So he turned his attention back to the blonde man in front of him and clasped him on the shoulder with a reassuring smile.

"I'm doing fine," he stated firmly. "Really fine actually, especially now that the two of you are here. I would love to join you. Let me just get my cigarettes and sunglasses and we can get going, yeah?"

He waited for Enjolras to nod before disappearing inside his apartment again.

"See?" Combeferre said softly when Grantaire went back inside. "I told you he was doing okay, Enjolras. He's safe, we all are… I promise." He squeezed his friend's shoulder but frowned when he felt Enjolras tense up as he touched him. He wanted to ask what was wrong, why Enjolras was cross with him all of a sudden, but he chose not to comment on it. He knew that the things he had said about the camps were probably something that his friend couldn't comprehend, but to him it was true. He would have followed his friend there. He wished that he had. Now more than ever.

* * *

Their afternoon went by relatively pleasant. Combeferre and Grantaire told Enjolras all kinds of stories, and reminisced the happy times they had spent together. They walked along the Seine, strolled around the Notre Dame and ordered a drink in a small Café near Hôtel de Ville.

As Combeferre had expected, it was pretty crowded in the city, but everything went well. Enjolras didn't speak as much as he would have liked, but at least his friend smiled more honestly than he did earlier that day and it looked like he was feeling quite comfortable. He even asked Grantaire some questions about the volunteer work he was doing at the Louvre and seemed to genuinely listen to what his friend had to say. It all really was more than enough for Combeferre. It almost felt like it used to before the war.

So when everything went to hell in a matter of a few seconds, Combeferre had a hard time figuring out what was wrong, how he could help and what on earth they had done to deserve all of this. As a result, he fell in some sort of shocked trance and couldn't do anything more but stare.

It wasn't really his fault. He couldn't be blamed. No one could have seen it coming. Watching your - once fearless - friend fall down on his knees with his arms raised protectively over his head and _whimpering_ , wasn't something you'd expect when you were just enjoying the afternoon sun and drinking a cup of coffee.

It was just a small thing; such a little thing that triggered the panic attack. Grantaire was in the middle of explaining the new organized tours of the museum when a child at the table next to them knocked over a cup of tea, spilling half of the warm liquid over the her little baby sister who instantly started crying. The father – who was naturally shocked by the accident and the potential damage – raised his voice and cursed while trying to get the wet clothes off of his baby daughter and cool her burned upper arm with an ice cube at the same time. When the other child started crying as well and crowded her father to help, the poor man lost it, smashed his hand down hard on the table and yelled.

"For Heaven's sake, Julie, shut up and give me some space!"

At the end of the day it all turned out to be okay. The youngest daughter was fine and the man apologized for yelling at his oldest girl. But the shrieking of the baby, the angry voice of the father and the loud smack on the table had been enough to send Enjolras in a full blown panic attack.

Grantaire and Combeferre watched horrified how their friend choked on a suppressed sob and sank from his chair to the ground where he curled into a ball with his arms folded across his head, mumbling pleas and apologies, promising that he'd be better. Neither of the two friends knew how to react at that moment. What they were witnessing was so unlike the friend they knew and loved. And was also so different from the young man they were just starting to get to know. This miserable, terrified, broken _boy_ was a complete turn around. Even after seeing how traumatized Enjolras was, no one would have expected he was capable of a reaction like the one he had right then.

It was Grantaire who first sprung into action as he kneeled down next to Enjolras and gathered his once proud friend into his arms. He took Enjolras' face in his hands and turned it towards his own, hoping they could lock eyes. But his friend's eyes were squeezed tightly shut and no matter what Grantaire tried or said, Enjolras didn't respond to him in any way. Grantaire turned desperate eyes towards Combeferre, wondering why the older man hadn't pulled Enjolras from his arms yet. It surprised and concerned him when he saw the medical student stand in the exact place as he had been before it all went to hell, staring at them in horror, mouth agape, firmly frozen to the spot.

"Combeferre!" Grantaire said softly, but firmly, hoping to snap his friend out of his trance yet at the same time keep his voice low so that he wouldn't scare Enjolras any more. "Combeferre! Snap out of it, you can't do this right now. I need you."

But Combeferre didn't move. Enjolras' panic attack had shocked him immensely. Right at that moment all the pain, fear and despair of the past months came over him. He had lost his best friend and he would never come back to them. The man he admired, adored and looked up to was no longer there. This breakdown was a definite confirmation of that fact. This boy that was hunched on the ground wasn't someone he recognized. This wasn't his Enjolras. This was barely a shadow of his strong friend. This was someone he pitied, someone he felt sorry for.

"Damnit 'Ferre! Whatever's going on in your mind right now, you have to stop it! I need your help. He needs your help!'

But all Combeferre did was shake his head as one tear slowly made its way down his cheek. There was only one thing on his mind. He had lost his best friend. He had lost his little brother. He was never coming back. And he hadn't even said goodbye. He hadn't even told him how proud he was, how much he loved him...

Grantaire growled lowly and looked down at the trembling form in his arms. He pressed a quick kiss to the short blonde curls before standing up again. Enjolras didn't even seem to notice his absence. Grantaire bridged the short distance between him and Combeferre and placed both his hands on the man's shoulders, shaking him.

"You are not allowed to do this right now, Combeferre. Not now. _Look_ at him!"

When there was still no reaction, Grantaire grew slightly desperate. Here he was, in the middle of a crowded terrace, all surrounding eyes focused on him and his friends. And were Enjolras was panicking to an extend that Grantaire didn't know how to solve, Combeferre was turning nearly catatonic. When he looked back down at Enjolras, his desperation took the overhand and he hit Combeferre hard in his face.

He didn't allow himself to feel guitly about it, because it worked. Combeferre's wide eyes focused on him at once, shocked and confused.

"Get your damn act together Combeferre!" Grantaire snarled in a low voice. "Your best friend is having a goddamned panic attack and I cannot get him out of it. He relies on you. He _needs_ you. You can't fail him right now. Not ever. I don't care what bloody thoughts are inside that mind of yours, but you are going to block them out right now and _fix_ your friend."

Combeferre's eyes followed Grantaire's pointing finger and he looked horrified when they fell on the form of his friend. His breath hitched and he shook his head again.

"Damnit, 'Ferre. I know it's been hard on you... It's been hard on all of us... But we are not important right now," Grantaire said, gentler this time, still holding Combeferre's face in his hands. "Enjolras needs your help. Now do what you do best and be there for him."

And finally, Combeferre nodded. He turned into a complete different person the second he did, moving away from Grantaire and falling on his knees next to Enjolras. He pulled the younger man in his arms, tucked his head in the crook of his neck and carded his hand through the blonde hairs.

The steady stream of comforting words soon calmed Enjolras down and within the next five minutes, his breathing had returned to normal. The only thing that didn't stop were the apologies that kept coming from Enjolras' lips. However both Grantaire and Combeferre were fairly sure the apologies were no longer directed to the ghosts of Enjolras' mind, but to the two friends that were comforting him.

TBC.

* * *

_(I'm not really sure about this chapter... It was really hard for me to write, because I kept fearing that I wouldn't do it justice Anyway, I hope you liked it. Please leave me a review to let me know what you think?)_


	10. Chapter 10

It didn't take them long to get back to Combeferre's apartment. Once the panic attack was over, it was clear that Enjolras wanted nothing more than to get away from the lively city center and hide inside his room, where he could be alone with the people he trusted. The trio decided to take the metro instead of walking the way back. It wouldn't have taken them more than thirty minutes, but Enjolras was shaking far too much for Combeferre's liking. It felt safer to take the underground.

During their way back, Combeferre tried to reach out to his friend a couple of times, but whether he did so with a touch of his shoulder, a squeeze of his arm or a gentle word, Enjolras turned him down every time. He would either turn away or huff out an annoyed sigh. Combeferre finally gave up trying when Grantaire shook his head, silently encouraging him to leave it be.

Enjolras didn't say anything to neither of his friends after he was brought back from the painful flashbacks. He could still see all those faces staring down at him in bewilderment and misplaced curiosity. The embarrassment that bubbled up after realizing he was on the ground in the middle of a crowded terrace, shaking and crying, still had to leave his chest. The panic attack was one of the reasons why Enjolras was reluctant to go outside nowadays. He didn't trust himself anymore. He didn't trust his own emotions, his own instincts. His mind was constantly playing tricks on him. It was already hard enough to keep everything under control when he was safe at home with only Combeferre or his friends to worry about.

He knew the attack had scared Combeferre and Grantaire. He could see it in their eyes and in the way they kept telling him 'it is okay' and 'you're going to be fine'. Enjolras felt like they were only saying that to sooth their own racing hearts. And who could blame them? It wasn't like this whole thing wasn't taking its toll on them. Enjolras knew how much they worried and how hard they tried to keep him together. The panic attack he suffered had been severe enough to turn him into a miserable ball in the middle of one of the most crowded places in Paris. To his friends it must've looked like a confirmation that their strong friend was truly gone. Of course they were telling him everything was going to be okay. They had to, because otherwise they had to admit that they'd failed not only him but themselves as well.

Pulling his hand out of Combeferre's grasp for the third time in five minutes, Enjolras walked into the subway and stood near the train doors. He kept his head down, so he didn't have to see people staring at him, judging him. Sometimes it felt like he was still walking around in his stripes. No matter where he went or who he was with, people always seemed to know that he was a camp survivor. And apparently that was scary in one way or another, because people avoided him, whispered about him behind his back and expected him to fall apart at any second. It frustrated Enjolras, because he feared that maybe they were right.

How was he ever going to have a normal life if he couldn't even go outside without breaking down? How was he ever going to be independent if he was so scared all the time. How could he ever be on his own if the smallest things could trigger a panic attack? If Enjolras was honest with himself, the future terrified him because he had no idea what place he would have in it.

Both Combeferre and Grantaire remained silent as well. At this point it was better not to speak at all. The three of them were too fragile, too unsure, too afraid of saying the wrong thing. They sat down quietly opposite of each other, both keeping a close eye on their blonde friend.

Grantaire gazed subtly from Combeferre to Enjolras and back to Combeferre again. There was a tension there. Despite the concerned frown the medical student wore and despite the numerous attempts to get Enjolras' attention, Grantaire could see something had shifted in Combeferre's eyes. Something was different. He didn't know how long the tension between the best friends had been building, but it was obvious that the path they had been walking needed to change. There was an annoyance there – on both sides – but mostly a deep, deep grief on Combeferre's side. A grief that hadn't been that clear before. Grantaire was certain that it had exploded at the same time Enjolras' panic attack was triggered.

Opposite of him, Combeferre's breath suddenly hitched an Grantaire could feel his heart clench. He reached out and gave his friend's knee a gentle squeeze. He smiled when his friend looked up at him, his brown eyes filled with unshed tears. Grantaire knew Combeferre tried his best to keep it all together, but the artist wished he wouldn't. It wasn't a humanly possible thing to do after everything they'd been through. It wasn't healthy nor was it fair to put all his needs, desires and dreams aside in order to take care of his friend. No one would blame Combeferre if he thought of himself for once.

Especially not Enjolras.

Ever since Enjolras got back from his imprisonment, Combeferre had put his entire life on hold. He slept when Enjolras slept, he ate when Enjolras ate and he made sure to be at his friend's side nearly every second of the day. Admirable, of course. But also very suffocating for the both of them, despite Enjolras' increasingly clingy behavior. That way, Enjolras didn't get a chance to get used to being his own person again and Combeferre didn't allow himself to mourn the friend he'd lost nor work through the trauma of the war. It would come as no surprise to none of the Amis that this way of living would eventually take its toll.

It had been a small victory when Combeferre agreed with Courfeyrac that he needed to go back to work again and leave it to others to keep an eye on Enjolras during his absence. For a week now, he left the house for four hours. It was anything but easy when each day Enjolras pleaded with his friend to stay and Combeferre left the house with tears in his eyes.

The ride in the subway took them to the correct station in less than ten minutes. Grantaire decided to join the two best friends on their way home even though he lived in the opposite direction. He had no doubt that Combeferre was perfectly capable of taking care of Enjolras after what happened. To be honest, Grantaire was sure there was no one better for the job. But he felt like he could still mean something to the two of them and he wanted to speak to Combeferre alone before he left. He just hoped Combeferre would be willing to hear him out.

As they walked the short way back to their apartment, Combeferre felt his heart grow heavier with each step. Enjolras' panic attack had scared him deeply. Of course he knew how traumatized his friend was – he probably knew better than anyone else – but never had he wanted to believe that Enjolras was so far broken. The miserable boy that sank down crying in the middle of a crowded terrace, trembling and begging, wasn't the Enjolras he had grown up with. And the sudden realization that that young man was truly gone and would probably never come back had hit Combeferre hard. It had shifted something in his chest and all he wanted to do now was climb into bed and hide away from the world.

He silently followed Grantaire and Enjolras up the stairs and dug the keys out his pocket when they arrived at the front door. As soon as the tree of them stepped inside, Enjolras disappeared in his bedroom and quietly closed the door behind him. He hadn't uttered a single word after they left Île de la Cité. Combeferre watched him go with a painful heart and was about to go after him when a gentle hand on his shoulder stopped him.

"Give him some space, 'Ferre," Grantaire said, looking over Combeferre's shoulder to Enjolras' door.

Combeferre turned around and frowned, shaking his head. "No, I need to go to him," he commented, but his voice sounded doubtful. He realized with guilt in his heart that he felt unsure about comforting his best friend. He had never felt that way before. "He… He needs me… He shouldn't be alone after what happened."

The hand on his shoulder tightened and Combeferre looked into Grantaire's green eyes that glistened with sympathy. "What he needs is space… Give him a moment to get back to himself."

Combeferre turned back to the bedroom door again and bit his lip. Part of him didn't want to leave Enjolras alone. He knew his friend was probably scared and confused and Combeferre knew he depended on him to put him back together. However, another part of him wasn't ready to go in there just yet. That part of him was exhausted, dead tired, and couldn't find the energy to comfort someone who couldn't be comforted anyway. That part of him needed space as well.

"I need to talk to you anyway," Grantaire tried again.

He smiled when Combeferre finally nodded and followed him to the living room. They sat down on the couch and stayed silent for a short while. Grantaire didn't really know where to start and Combeferre was too far lost in his mind to think of anything to say. After a couple of minutes, Grantaire cleared his throat and pulled a tired hand across his face.

"Look," he started, clenching and unclenching his fists a few times. "I've been thinking on how to say this to you ever since what happened this afternoon, but I guess there's no good way to say it, so I'm just going to tell you right now that we all think something needs to change because we're worried about you… And about Enjolras as well, of course, but mostly about you… And this just can't go on the same way anymore…"

His voice was trembling and he hated how nervous he sounded. Maybe he shouldn't have said anything and just leave it to one of the other Amis. Grantaire swallowed and took a deep breath.

Combeferre raised his eyebrows and looked confused. He cleared his throat and shook his head a little. "Uhm… I-uh… What do mean? Who is 'we' and what exactly do you think needs to change? I don't understand…" His voice was quiet, almost insecure and Grantaire definitely knew now that he should've let one of his friends deal with this. But he started the conversation and there was no backing out now.

"The Amis," he replied kindly, with a small smile. "We're worried about you 'Ferre… Courf called an emergency meeting last week after you collapsed on the stairs collecting your mail.."

Combeferre huffed and looked away. He had hoped Courfeyrac had kept that to himself, but apparently he hadn't. "That was nothing, R… I told Courf that too. I was just… I just stumbled, that was all."

Grantaire shook his head. "No, you passed out because you were exhausted. Because you hadn't slept in days. We are not blind, Combeferre… We can all see how much this is taking from you and it's clear that you're not doing well."

Combeferre rolled his eyes but didn't answer. What was he going to say? He had seen himself in the mirror, he knew how tired he looked. There was no use denying it.

"We're worried because you can't keep this up. It's not healthy. Your entire life revolves around Enjolras. You're with him practically 24/7. You only eat when he's eating and you only sleep when he sleeps and God knows how little he sleeps nowadays. You've put everything you love on hold and you put yourself in second place at everything."

"Well what do you expect me to do?" Combeferre snapped, his eyes wide and shining. "What am I supposed to do, Grantaire? Do I just turn away and let him deal with everything on his own? I'm trying my best here! You have no idea how hard it is… How hard it is to have your best friend fall apart right in front of you, desperately seeking comfort but no matter what you do, you can't offer it. You have no idea how hard it is to fall asleep exhausted knowing you'll wake up in less than an hour because he is haunted by night terrors. You have no idea how hard it is to try and try and try and all you accomplish is your friend drawing away even further into his shell. You have no idea how hard it is to be afraid you'll lose him after all while at the same time a deep dark part of you thinks it would've been better if he'd never come back…"

Combeferre choked on a sob he tried to keep back and squeezed his eyes shut.

"Don't you think we know that 'Ferre?" Grantaire offered softly, keeping his voice low and kind. "Of course we realize how hard this is and that is exactly what worries us. You try to do everything on your own… despite the fact that you've got six friends who are more than willing to help. You are there for Enjolras in every possible way, and that's wonderful, but you forget to think about yourself in the process. You haven't even given yourself the chance to work through your own trauma of the war… Or to mourn for the people we've lost…"

Combeferre shook his head and gave Grantaire a confused look. "What do you mean? I've mourned the great losses we suffered together with you… but we haven't lost anyone close to us…"

"Yes we have… 'Ferre… The Enjolras you're looking for isn't there anymore. He died in that war and you can try all you want but that person isn't coming back. You need to accept that in order to help him find who he is now." Grantaire knew how horrible it sounded to say those words, but it was the truth and Combeferre needed to hear them. Everyone else had given it a place – even Courfeyrac – and had accepted that they needed to build a new future instead of trying to rekindle the past. And as long as Combeferre hadn't truly accepted that the old Enjolras was gone, none of them could go forward. Least of all Enjolras.

Combeferre glanced at the closed bedroom door and let out a small sigh. "How do you know that? How can any of you be so sure about that? Cosette told me she believes he's still in there…"

"Of course there are still parts of him that are the same, I'm not saying that, 'Ferre. But you're trying to fix an Enjolras that isn't there anymore. Not completely. He told you that himself… Courf said he told both of you that he was never going to be the same. Who else knows better than Enjolras himself? It's not fair to him to keep these expectations.."

A silence filled the room after those words. Combeferre tried to let them sink in. It wasn't like it hadn't occurred to him before, but each time it did he just refused to believe it. Now Grantaire was telling their friends had had an emergency meeting about him and Enjolras… Were things really that bad? And what did they want him to do? They knew how dependent Enjolras nowadays; they knew how clingy he got and how reluctant he was to be alone… Some of them witnessed it last week when he started going back to work..

"Maybe you're right…," Combeferre whispered after a couple of minutes. "But I still don't understand what you think I need to change… I'm already going back to work, aren't I? I'm still doing things I like… I read… I invite you guys over often enough… Today we went outside with Enjolras…"

Grantaire nodded. "We know that. And it's a good thing that you started working again 'Ferre… We just… We just think that in order for you to get used to this new life and for Enjolras to stand on his own feet, you guys need to give each other a little more space."

"You've seen him, R… He doesn't want space, he needs-"

"He hasn't slept in his own bed since he got back 'Ferre, he hasn't even tried.." Grantaire interrupted him softly.

"Because he's terrified! He has nightmares every night… The fact that he sleeps with me is the only reason he sleeps at all."

"I understand that, I do… But he's going to need to learn to be independent again. This way, he always has someone to fall back on. He doesn't even really have to try anymore, because he knows you're there and you'll protect him. And at the same time he hates himself for it. You've seen him today, after that panic attack. It was obvious how embarrassed he felt. He doesn't want that, he wants to be able to have control of his emotions and memories again. He wants to have control of his own life again… And he's never going to learn that if we don't let him deal with things on his own more often… I'm not saying you need to let go of him all at once. Of course not! I just think that maybe we need a different approach. We shouldn't 'mother' him this way… I don't think it's good for him in the long run no matter how much he seems to need it right now…"

Combeferre stared down at the hands folded in his lap and thought of something he could say. Were they right? Did he need to force Enjolras to be more independent? Would he have to push his friend away when he craved comfort? How could he? After everything Enjolras had already gone through? Still… What Grantaire said was true. The more Enjolras relied on him, the harder it would be for his friend to find his place in this new world. Ever since his roommate was captured, someone else had been in control of him. Now that he was back, Enjolras still didn't have control. He'd unconsciously given it to Combeferre who took the responsibility without knowing he had.

"Like I said…," Grantaire continued when Combeferre remained silent, "None of us think we should change the way things are overnight… But we do think that maybe – slowly – we need to start pushing him a little more. For his own sake. And for yours as well, to be honest…"

Combeferre looked back up at Grantaire, his eyes thoughtful. There used to be a time when the artist annoyed him. A few years ago he was bothered by Grantaire's childish behavior and his lack of responsibility. But the man that sat before him now was someone entirely different.

"You've changed," Combeferre mused.

"War changes people," Grantaire replied, shrugging his shoulders as if it was as simple as that. "I guess it changed me for the better." He pushed himself up from the couch and walked into the kitchen to gather his bag. When he returned, Combeferre was still sitting in the same spot, staring at the bedroom room.

"I-uh… I think I should go now… But just so you know, none of us decided on how or when we should discuss this with you… It wasn't like it was planned or anything. I just thought that after what happened this afternoon, maybe I should just tell you so you could think about it yourself.. I hope that's okay…"

Combeferre uttered another sigh and nodded. He stood from the couch as well and walked Grantaire to the door. "Of course that's okay… I just… I need to think about it. And I'd appreciate it if in the future I'll be invited to a meeting concerning myself and my wellbeing."

Grantaire returned the smile Combeferre offered him and shook his hand. "Noted. And as soon as you're willing to leave Enjolras alone for an hour or two, you will be. Bye 'Ferre.. Tell E I'll come by soon, yeah?"

TBC.


	11. Chapter 11

_Hi guys, it's been a while! I've been extremely busy – still am – and so I don't get to writing that much. Plus I've suffered from a horrible writer's block. But, I finally managed to get another chapter up. Hope you'll enjoy it!_

* * *

After Grantaire left the apartment, Combeferre stays in the living room for a long time. He has a lot to think about. The things Grantaire told him showed him new insight in how to deal with the situation they were in. It certainly gave him new perspective and he knew he was going to have to take Grantaire's ideas into consideration. It was clear that the way things were going now, were not working. Enjolras hadn't improved at all in the past three weeks. If anything, he was doing worse. The breakdown from that afternoon only proved how bad things really were.

However, even though Combeferre was more than willing to think about a new approach, he didn't have to like it. If he was honest with himself, he didn't like it at all. The idea of stepping back and letting Enjolras deal with his trauma on his own, terrified him. How could that be a solution, when all Enjolras wanted was to stay close to his friend? How could he give Enjolras space when the man suffered horrible nightmares that he begged to be woken up from? How could he leave Enjolras to do things on his own when panic attacks and flashbacks were just waiting around the corner? Wasn't it better to stay close and guide his friend along the right path? Shouldn't he stay close and make sure Enjolras was safe?

But then… Who was he to take away Enjolras' control over his own life? What would become of his best friend if he lived only by Combeferre's guidance, holding  _his_  hand? Was he really any better than their enemies if he kept that control – even if it was to keep him safe? Even if he would never harm Enjolras and even if he would never lead him astray? Was it really fair to take that control that Enjolras had given him so willingly? Combeferre hadn't even thought about it until Grantaire mentioned it.

But now that Grantaire had, it made Combeferre think and question and think again. It was true what Grantaire said. Combeferre wasn't blind, he too could see how hard it was for Enjolras to settle into this new life. It was all too clear that his best friend was in constant conflict with himself. Old and new memories that tried to mix together, but couldn't, because they were so very different. It must be terribly confusing to feel like two different persons at the same time. One who is scared all the time and another who wants to take back control over his life. And instead of working together, the two hold each other back – two completely different characters that cannot be merged into one. And unfortunately for Enjolras, the scared and broken one has the upper hand. Because it is easier to lock yourself away and hide from everything than to confront your fears.

The contrast became all too clear that afternoon when a mere loud voice sent Enjolras into a complete melt down that he couldn't control. The image of his best friend kneeling whimpering on the ground was one Combeferre would never forget. However, as soon as Enjolras came back to himself, the sheer embarrassment of his breakdown seemed to destroy him. Combeferre could see in his eyes how angry his friend was with himself, how disappointed and ashamed.

He wanted to help so badly, but he had no idea how. Without any real knowledge of what Enjolras had gone through during his imprisonment, Combeferre had no idea where to start. Maybe it was better to loosen the reigns a bit and force Enjolras to discover who he was now and where he saw himself in this new world. It wouldn't be easy, but maybe it was necessary. After all, only Enjolras – who had all the knowledge about his old and his new self – could decide who he wanted to be. No one else could or should make that decision for him.

Apart from the fact that Enjolras might need more space to determine who he wants to be, Combeferre knows it would be good for him too to take a step back and work through the loss of their old life – of Enjolras' old life – and the trauma of the war. When Grantaire first mentioned it, Combeferre was critical and didn't believe it. But when he thought about it, it was true that he still had not really accepted that things wouldn't go back to the way they were. His mind had known it all along, but his heart still dared to hope. And in this case, the heart had been more powerful than the mind. Hope is always more powerful. Deep down Combeferre feels guilty for hoping in the first place. He got his friend back, wasn't that enough? Why did his heart have to long for more? Couldn't it be grateful?

Yes, things needed to change. For the both of them. But he wasn't going to do anything rash. Like Grantaire said, they didn't have to change things overnight. Combeferre still wanted to be there for Enjolras. He still wanted to be his solid rock for as long as his friend needed it. Maybe they would just have to discuss things together. Surely Enjolras would know best what he needed and what he wanted. Maybe Combeferre only had to ask…

* * *

A glance at clock told Combeferre that he had been sitting here for nearly an hour. Enjolras still hadn't left his room. With a weary sigh, Combeferre pushes himself up from the couch and walks over to Enjolras' closed bedroom door. He hesitates for a second – wondering if his friend might need some more time alone – but then knocks anyway. He waits for an answer and when there comes none, he knocks again.

Enjolras still doesn't answer him, and so Combeferre turns the knob and lets himself in. For a moment he's afraid of what he'll find, but then he spots his friend on his bed. Enjolras lies with his back to the bedroom door and doesn't make a sound when Combeferre opens the door further. All he does is shift and curl in on himself. Combeferre opens his mouth to say something, to announce his arrival, but then decides not to. He just walks over to the bed and lies down next to Enjolras.

They lie there in a comfortable silence, Enjolras still on his side and Combeferre on his back, staring at the ceiling. Then Combeferre remembers a conversation he and Enjolras had earlier that day and he realizes he still needs to clear the air between the two of them.

"Enjolras…," Combeferre starts softly, swallowing the sudden lump in his throat. "I want to apologize to you… For what I said earlier today… a-about the camps?"

Enjolras still doesn't say anything, but Combeferre can hear him take a deeper breath and he knows Enjolras knows exactly what he's talking about.

"I know that what I said… a-about wishing I had been there with you… I know that it might have been an insensitive thing to say, especially to you. And for that I'm incredibly sorry, because I never meant to hurt you or to make your experiences sound ignorant."

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for a moment. "But I won't take them back, Enjolras… I can't. Because it is truly what I wish. When they took you away from me I was nothing. I was no one… I should've been there that day and I wasn't, and I'll never forgive myself for it. I hate that it makes you angry or sad… But… I'll say only now, one last time, that if I could turn back time, I would've turned myself in alongside of you. I should've been there to protect you, to look out for you. That's my job and I failed… And now you have gone through something I can never understand and I can never protect you from those awful memories and I hate it. I hate that we've gone down different paths and now I can't help you the way that I want…"

Combeferre wants to say more, but at that point Enjolras turns around to face him. His eyes are a little red, but his expression is soft.

"It's not your  _job_  to protect me, 'Ferre… We've had that discussion before…"

Combeferre shakes his head and opens his mouth to contradict, but Enjolras doesn't give him space to interrupt.

"I understand that you feel the way you do… Or at least I think I do… But it scared me when you said it…" Enjolras is quiet for a second before looking up at his friend with tears in his eyes. "You know that the only thing that kept me going in there… The only reason why I didn't give up months ago was because I knew none of you were in there with me. The  _only_  reason, 'Ferre… You were safe… Maybe you weren't complete and maybe you weren't fine, but you were safe and that was all that mattered to me. With that knowledge, I had the strength to keep on going. I had the hope to return to you one day…The only good thing about those camps was that you and the others  _weren't_  there with me…"

Combeferre stares at the ceiling as he lets Enjolras' words sink in. They make sense, they do. And if Combeferre had been in Enjolras' shoes he'd probably feel the same way. But that still didn't change the way that he felt. It still didn't make him want to take his words back, because he still meant them. Combeferre doesn't know what to say, so instead he takes Enjolras' hand in his own and squeezes it briefly.

They fall silent again, leaving the discussion at that. Once again, Combeferre wishes he could just ask his friend about what he has gone through, but he won't. He'll never forget the plead Enjolras made him the day he returned home. And he won't ever break his promise. But he does believe that Enjolras will have to get it all out one way or another. It can't be healthy to keep it all inside.

"Grantaire stayed a while…" Enjolras says after a few minutes. He doesn't continue and so Combeferre guesses he wants him to collaborate.

"He did," Combeferre answers, nodding, "We talked about some things. He promised to come by soon again."

"You talked about what happened this afternoon?" Enjolras asks quietly, playing with a loose string on the shirt he's wearing. "About the panic attack?"

Combeferre turns his head and looks at his friend, who deliberately avoids his gaze. Grantaire was right. It's all too clear that Enjolras feels embarrassed about what happened. He squeezes Enjolras' hand again and says: "Among other things, yes."

Before he can say more, Enjolras pulls his hand out of his grip and turns on his side again, facing Combeferre. He doesn't meet his friend's eyes when he mumbles a quiet apology. "I didn't mean for that to happen and I hate that it did… I just… Couldn't help it, I guess."

Swallowing the sudden lump in his throat, Combeferre turns on his side as well and offers Enjolras a sad smile. "I know you didn't mean for it to happen. And I know you can't help it. You've gone through a great trauma and you've only been back with us for three weeks. Of course I know that you didn't want this to happen. And you know that I know that, so why are you apologizing?"

That's when Enjolras looks up and stares directly into Combeferre's eyes. The pain and frustration are clear for Combeferre to see and he has difficulty to hold Enjolras' gaze instead of turning away. The look of deep unhappiness burns a hole into his very soul.

"Because I saw the way you looked at me… You and Grantaire both…" Enjolras says with a trembling voice. "I saw how scared you were… I know how scared everyone is… and I don't want that… I  _hate_  that. I don't want to be that person, 'Ferre… I don't want to worry you… I don't want to be this needy, helpless friend who can't even go outside without breaking down. I don't want to be afraid anymore… I don't… I don't know… I'm confused and scared and angry at the same time and it's exhausting. I don't know how to do this anymore…" His voice breaks somewhere in the middle of the last sentence and he tries to stop the trembling of his bottom lip.

Combeferre's eyes fill with tears and he has to bite his own lip. Enjolras has averted his gaze again and doesn't see how much trouble his friend has to keep himself from breaking down. With a strength greater than he thought he had, Combeferre forces himself to calm down and be the solid rock Enjolras wants to lean on. He reaches out once more and gathers Enjolras' hands in his own.

"My dearest friend…" Combeferre begins softly and he leans forward to press a light kiss on his forehead. "You are so very strict with yourself. You've been out of Bergen-Belsen for less than three months and you've only been with us for three weeks. Give yourself a break. You've experienced something horrible and you've seen things no human being should have to see… You're severely traumatized and it's nothing more than logical that you feel the way you do. You can't expect yourself to fully cooperate in a world that's so very different from the one you were forced to live in. It takes time and strength and exercise. You are no longer the person you were before the war, you told me that yourself, but you're also no longer the person you were in the camps. You need to discover who you are now, who you want to be and what your place is going to be in this world. And it might take months, maybe even years to figure that out, but that's okay. It is nothing to be ashamed about and we are the last people you need to be worrying about. We love you unconditionally, no matter what."

Combeferre tries to lift Enjolras' head to catch his eyes, but his friend doesn't allow him and shakes his head instead. When Enjolras lets out a trembling breath, Combeferre gathers his friend in his arms, and holds him close.

"You are right… What happened this afternoon scared me, scared us. Of course it scared us, Enjolras," Combeferre continued quietly. "But not because of the flashback or the panic attack, but because we didn't know what to do or how to help. We didn't know what it was that you remembered, we hardly know anything about what happened to you and we can never relate. This is new for us too and we need to find our way just as much as you do. But that doesn't mean we will ever stop trying. Of course not! All we want to do is help you as much as we can, be there for you whenever you need us. You and I, and all our friends, have followed different paths during the war and now that we're back together, we need to find out how we can move forward. Not only as individuals, but as a group as well. And we will find out how to do that, I'm certain of it, but it will take time and effort from every one of us."

Combeferre feels rather than sees Enjolras nod his head in agreement and he pulls back a little. When he looks at his friend, he notices the wetness on his pale face and the reaches out to thumb the tears away.

"It's hard," Enjolras admits in a slightly hesitating voice. "I really want to be my own person again… I hate that I'm afraid to go outside and see people. I'm scared of what others think when they see me… I'm ashamed of how I look and I hate that I can't even sleep in my own bed… I can't even really sleep in your bed either… I just wish I had the strength to control my emotions… But every time I step out of that comfort zone, only the slightest thing has to happen and I don't even know what's happening anymore. It's just so much easier to hide inside… to stay where it's safe, with people I trust. It's so much easier to not even try."

Combeferre nods, because he understands. Being silent and submissive is all Enjolras has known for a long period of time. It is all that he has seen as well, with prisoners who were in the same situation as he was. Combeferre can imagine how confusing it must be to suddenly realize that he is allowed to have a voice – that people expect him to speak his mind. It is as Grantaire said: Enjolras is stuck between wanting to be a person of is own again and being far too scared to take that step.

"Maybe…," Combeferre stops and clears his throat, "Maybe it would help if you'd talk a bit more about what happened. You keep everything bottled up inside and you have no one to share your memories with. Maybe… if you allow it to come out once in a while, it doesn't weigh you down us much as it does now. Maybe you'll be able to take back that control you want when you find a way to share those fears that hold you back now."

Enjolras sighs and shakes his head. He slowly pulls out of Combeferre's hold and turns on his back again, fixing his gaze at the ceiling. After a few minutes of silence, he speaks. "I can't 'Ferre… I can't talk about it to you… I don't want to… Besides, you don't want to know. Believe me, you don't."

Combeferre pushes himself up and looks down at his friend with a small smile. "I wasn't talking about myself, or about any of our friends for that matter." He sighs. "I know you don't want to tell me and even though I wish I knew what you have gone through, I understand that you can't talk about it to me… I meant something else… Or someone else."

"Like a therapist?" Enjolras asks quietly.

"More like a psychologist… someone who has experience with war trauma. Someone who you can tell your story to, or not tell your story to, but at least someone who knows how to help you get a grip on the things you're struggling with." Combeferre watches his friend closely, afraid that he may have been too bold in his suggestion. "It might be worth a try…"

Enjolras doesn't say anything for a long time and for a moment Combeferre fears he has ruined their conversation. It was an idea he had been walking around with for a while now, but he hadn't dared to say anything. Now that Enjolras so openly told him about his struggles, it seemed like the right time to mention it.

Combeferre is just about to take the words back and apologize when Enjolras turns his head and looks at him. He has tears in his eyes again, but there is a small smile playing around his lips. Then he nods and squeezes Combeferre's hand.

"Yes," he says soflty. "I think that too…"

TBC.

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_Finally another chapter done. I hope it was up to your expectations. Please let me know what you think and leave a little review, it would mean a lot!_


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